Variations on Dusk to Dawn
by LittlestTrainWreck
Summary: Sherlock and John are invited to a desolate estate in Scotland for a gala. Amid personal tensions, they find themselves locked inside a nightmare where anyone can drop dead and disappear at any moment. They must solve a riddle before the sun rises. What is the one way to destroy Sherlock Holmes? Johnlock. Slow Burn Romance. Casefic.
1. Chapter 1

Major wish fulfillment. This is the product of too much literary study, queer theory, caffeine, and emotions.

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"After the torchlight red on sweaty faces  
After the frosty silence in the gardens  
After the agony in stony places  
The crying and the shouting  
Prison and place and reverberation  
Of thunder of spring over distant mountains  
He who was living is now dead  
We who were living are now dying  
With a little patience"

\- The Wasteland, T.S. Eliot

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

John Watson's voice was still raw. He cleared his throat, reached up to fidget with the miniature ribbons and medals pinned to his lapel, and tried not to wince at the burning. Christ, felt like he'd swallowed razors. A pair of richly dressed young women passed by, offering amiable smiles. John only nodded politely, hands clasped behind his back. Entirely silent. He had enough sense to keep up appearances, keep the evening professional, because God knew _someone_ had to be. He wouldn't let a personal matter encroach on his evening. That was the end of it, as far as he was concerned. Still, as he listened to the music, all he could hear was his own voice thundering back in his ears. The sound rang in a dissonant harmony with another equally furious voice.

He and Sherlock had taken separate cabs to the isolated estate. John remembered leaning against the cool glass of the car window and looking out at the approaching mansion. The wrought iron gates had parted with a loud complaint as the cab rolled up the drive. He'd glanced in the side view mirror, and caught Sherlock's gaze in the reflection of the cab behind them. His eyes had immediately snapped forward.

It had been hours since the two of them arrived at the gala. When they'd first gotten the invitation, it hadn't seemed like such a chore to go. Of course, not for John, because he wasn't an unsociable bastard. Sherlock had a different opinion on the matter. However, the invitation had been mailed along with a letter from Mycroft, insisting that they attend. It was an odd package, to say the least. One large envelope with two letters inside, one from Mycroft on his own stationary, and the other written on old parchment, folded, and sealed with red wax. A themed party, they had assumed. Sherlock had read both letters, grumbling about his brother as he threw them both into the fireplace. It was some dull gala full of politicians, heirs, and Lombard street pricks. Mycroft wanted Sherlock there to pick up what he could about a few interesting guests, and report back, for the magnificent prize of dropping contact with the younger Holmes for a month. So, worth it. John had been rather excited at first. It offered a bit of a vacation, a chance to glimpse high society, and a getaway from the throbbing of London.

So, that was how John found himself here. Standing awkwardly by a pillar on the edge of the ballroom dance floor, out of place, alone, and wishing for all the world that the pillar would fall on him. His gaze kept gravitating toward the cocktail bar at the other end of the floor. As tempting as it was to retreat over there, he contented himself with the hors d'oeuvre. A shot or two would definitely make this event more bearable, but he didn't want to make an ass of himself.

The ballroom itself was magnificent, a contributing factor to making John feel rather like an ant under the Queen's boot. The walls stretched up into vaulted ceilings, adorned with golden details he could barely make out through the warm glare of the chandeliers. The floors were marble, the windows yawning mouths gaping out at the manicured gardens, the twin staircases curving up to a plush gallery, and here John was, trying to figure out the difference between pâté and mousse. The pillar couldn't come down fast enough.

Moving for the first time in what felt like an hour, John made his way over to a buffet table with a few selections of non-alcoholic drinks. Water would do for now. Despite the unglamorous choice, the beverage was still served with ice, lemon, and a sprig of mint. John took it, tried not to look like a perplexed idiot, and guzzled it down in one go. His esophagus stung, but the cold was soothing. It was as he was bringing the cup down that he caught the reflection in the glass. Sherlock was moving through the crowd on the other side of the room. John set the glass down and turned around, only to slam right into a smaller body carrying a hefty tray. The metal clattered to the ground, cutting for a moment into the idle chatter of the room as people turned to see what the noise was. It didn't last long, though. John recovered, eyes darting up to find that Sherlock was nowhere in sight. The panicked apologies of the maid he'd bumped into drew him back to reality.

"Oh! Oh God- I mean, I'm so sorry, sir, I didn't see-," a flustered young woman stammered as she dropped to her knees to pick up ruined bits of blackberry tarts.

John easily knelt down with her. "No, don't worry about it. I wasn't paying attention. You're okay?" he asked as he helped her pile the mess onto her tray.

"I- yes, yes I'm okay. I'll just have to go back to the kitchens. I'm sorry again." Strands of tangled blonde hair fell in her face as she took the tray again and rose to her feet. Her clothing was plain, a black dress with a high collar covering her neck, and a white apron. Her hair was held back, though loosely, in a bun.

Seeing that she was still rather unsteady, John took the tray from her, dumped the crumbled tarts into the trash bin beside the drinks table. "You'll not get in trouble for this, will you?" he asked.

The young woman seemed startled. "Hm? Ah, um, I suppose I might..." she replied timidly.

John handed her the empty tray. "What's your name?"

Again, she gaped a moment before answering. "Jane Dawson."

"Well Jane," the Doctor began, "if you should get any blame, have them come speak to John Watson. I'll tell them what happened."

Jane's eyes widened, her breath stuttering. "John Watson?"

"Have we met?" John frowned.

"No, we haven't I just..." Jane trailed off, her voice going soft. "I've read your stories, the ones on your blog."

"Oh," John replied. He shifted awkwardly from foot to foot. It wasn't the first time he'd met a 'fan' (God, the word sounded so asinine), but he'd never known quite how to deal with it. "Would... would you like an-"

"No! No, it's alright, I'm not asking for an autograph or anything," Jane was quick to cut in. "Sorry, I was just a little starstruck. I really do love your stories, and I didn't expect to see you tonight," she tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. "I have to ask. Is... Mr. Holmes here with you?"

Suddenly, John was all too aware of the hoarseness to his voice. "He should be around here somewhere." Wherever somewhere was, he had no idea.

Jane nodded, fingers drumming against the edge of the tray. "Right. Well, it was very nice meeting you. I'm looking forward to reading your next story." With that, the young woman offered a smile and disappeared into the throng.

John watched her go for a moment, his eyes then flickering to the opposite wall, where he'd sworn he saw Sherlock.

He'd been writing up his next story when they got the invitation to the gala. Sitting in his red chair, he'd had his laptop on one knee, and a whiskey soda on the end table just within reach. The flat had been unbearably silent between the two of them, not a word said for days. Sherlock had come in with the envelopes, grumbled for a solid ten minutes, threw them in the fireplace, and finally spoke. "Gala in Edinburgh, this Sunday. Mycroft's chores."

John had closed his laptop, setting it aside and trading it for his whiskey. "High brow party in the mountains? You'll have to book yourself a train ticket soon," he'd said over the rim of his glass.

"Our tickets," Sherlock had corrected as he dropped into his armchair. "If I'm forced through this torture, I sure as hell am going to drag you down with me."

John had smiled at that, the expression dim and not quite reaching his eyes. "I'd be glad to go along. Might be nice... getting out of the city for a few days."

Sherlock had returned the faded look, gesturing to his laptop. "What were you doing?"

"Writing," John had replied. His voice went low. "Typing up the, ehm, latest case. Or trying."

"Ah," Sherlock had nodded. "Got a title?"

"The Resonant Patient," John'd answered with a sharp tone. "But it isn't the title that is the difficult part."

They were silent after that, the room suddenly feeling empty and filled with dust. _Dust_ , John thought. The ballroom of the mansion seemed to be coated in it. He chalked it up to a large space and not enough hands to clean it. Dust coated the tables, the ornate rails of the staircase, and floated in the air. It created tangible beams, trailing off from the chandelier, dancing in clouds, and catching rays of the setting sun from the windows. It was getting dark out, but the sun had yet to sink down behind the mountain peaks. John supposed it was rather romantic, but all it did was make him too aware of his dry throat. He took up another glass of water.

The evening went on. Largely uneventful, aside from a few toasts and glasses dropped from drunken fingers. There was nothing to break the dull rhythm of the party. John wandered around the ballroom, mostly keeping to himself but occasionally chatting with a few of the guests. They were interesting people. John had a few genuinely entertaining conversations, but he was only half in them. It wasn't being bored that caused his social disconnect. It was that no matter what he did, he couldn't shake the tenseness in his back. He couldn't escape the thoughts that had plagues him since that afternoon. Didn't mean he couldn't try, though. So, he forced himself to mingle, if only to pass the time. The end of every conversation saw John taking a glance around the room for his companion. With no sighting, he'd take another walk around the perimeter of the dance floor until another conversation stepped into his path (Most were successful, though every so often someone would go out of their way to speak to him, just to point out the medals pinned to his breast pocket. They'd ask about war stories, or thank him in some awkward way, and John would without fail find some reason to excuse himself.)

It was as he was side stepping some old man who wanted to shake his hand and talk about politics that he ran into another, more interesting couple. A few flowers had fallen out of a woman's braid, and John picked them up. He tapped on her shoulder and held them out. The woman immediately reached back to find that the flowers in his hand were, in fact, not in her hair.

"Thanks!" she laughed as she took them back. Her husband nodded his thanks and offered to stick them back into her hair. "Never would have noticed. They're fake, but I would've still been disappointed."

"It's not a problem," said John. "So, American I'm guessing?"

"You caught us," the man laughed, one flower between his teeth as he tried to fix his wife's hair. "We're from California."

"Hattie Moulton," she extended her hand for a shake. "This is my husband, Francis."

"John Watson," John replied as he accepted her hand. She had a grip that could crack walnuts- or John's knuckles, the more likely case. "California, then. Did you come out all this way for the gala?"

"It's what inspired the trip," Hattie nodded, only to receive a playful flick on her ear for moving. Hattie reached behind to smack him on the shoulder with her hand bag. "We got the invitation, and we'd been saying for a few years that we wanted to take a trip around the U.K. I lived here for a few years when I was a teenager, and I wanted to show the hubby around. Mr. Bell was one of Daddy's friends. I never met him myself, but it sure was nice of him to extend the invitation to me after Daddy passed."

John frowned. "Mr. Bell?"

Francis shot him an odd look as he pinned the final flower back into place. "The host, man. Ignatius A. C. Bell. He's a writer. Would've figured that's why he invited you, Dr. Watson. Love your stories, by the way."

"Oh, thank you," John replied. "It wasn't actually my invitation, though. I just came along with-"

"Sherlock Holmes?" Hattie asked, her voice pitching in excitement. "Is he here too?"

"Who knows anymore," John shrugged. "Anyway, it was his invitation. I didn't even see what the gala was for."

"Don't think Mr. Bell really had a reason, to be honest," said Hattie as she took her husband's arm. "It didn't say anything on the invitation, anyway. Just seemed like he wanted an excuse to have a party. I can't really blame him, living in this dreary old place. Who wouldn't want to bring a bit of life to it, even if it's just for a night?"

"Yes, I suppose so. But then why would he-" John trailed off in mid sentence when a familiar shape caught his eye. He turned, watching as a head of curly black hair breached the crowd on the adjacent side of the room, disappearing in seconds. "I..." John struggled to regain his train of thought. "Sorry, I-" But when he turned back, the couple was gone. John frowned, casting his eyes about, and finding no sign of the couple he'd been speaking to moments before. The hum of the party went on.

John found himself stranded. The gala, with its music and its richly dressed dancers, all faded away until there was nothing left but the burning in his throat, and the tension in his back. He'd been feeling off all day, long before things went sour this afternoon at the hotel. It had been an early start, with a 05:30 train out of London. He and Sherlock had put their suits into one garment bag, and managed to put the rest of their overnight things in two small suitcases, taking up minimal space in their compartment. Sherlock had used them both to lean back on, stretching his long body across the bench seat across from John. As dawn rose over the countryside, flickering between trees and windmills, Sherlock had slept, soaking up the first warm rays of the sun.

John hadn't been nearly so comfortable. Sitting upright with his laptop on a tray, he'd typed away since the train pulled out of the city, rigid and concentrated. It was as they were crossing through Lancaster that he'd slammed the computer shut and tossed it aside onto the cushion next to him.

Sherlock had woken at the sound, cracking an eye open to look at his friend. "Problem?"

"No," John had grumbled. "No problem at all, just felt like checking the hinges."

"I'm sure you found them satisfactory," Sherlock had replied easily. He'd stretched his legs out on the seat with a yawn. "The Resonant Patient?"

John had sighed, rubbing his palm over his jaw as he sank back into his chair. "Can't figure out how to put it into words."

Sherlock had rolled his eyes, patience visibly wearing thin. "Then why are you trying to write it at all? Just leave it, John. There's no need to publish every one of our failures."

"I never said I was going to publish it," John'd snapped. "I need to sort it out. For myself. It was a fair bit more than just a failure, if you cared to know."

They hadn't spoken again, after that. The rumble of the train gliding over the tracks was there to fill the void, but that was it. Sherlock had glared at him a while, before turning on his side, his back to John, and going back to sleep. John stared out the window for a while to calm down before opening his laptop again and continuing to write. They arrived in Carlisle at 09:40, switched trains, and continued on to Edinburgh. Between disembarking, finding a cab, and the trip out of the city, it was noon before they had reached their hotel.

John sighed. He was going to have to confront Sherlock on calmer terms eventually, but the man wasn't exactly making it easy on him. Abandoning him at a gala in the middle of the wilderness of Scotland was a little too much, in his opinion. It had been hours since their spat, they could at least _pretend_ to be on good terms for the night. It would certainly make it less tiring- on second thought, maybe not.

Giving up on finding either his friend or the couple he'd been talking to, John continued his aimless wandering around the ballroom. He avoided the dance floor like the plague, praying that no one would pull him in for an unexpected waltz. He had to admit, the small orchestra band was very good. It was just a bit odd that he couldn't see them. Couldn't be speakers, the building didn't have a single light switch or power outlet so far as he could see, and it sounded too close to be anything but live. John wasn't going to spend the entire evening hunting down the music, though. At this point in the night, he was more keen on hunting down the bar. He'd gone a few hours sober, he deserved a glass of wine.

"Evening, Dr. Watson," the man behind the bar smiled as he approached. His Scottish accent was thick, but enunciated, and combined with the pristine bow tie and upright posture, gave off the impression of superiority. "Chardonnay?"

John looked wary as he walked up to the bar, but still responded. "Merlot."

"Ah," the man chuckled. "Would have pegged you for a Chardonnay man. Here you are."

John took the glass with a nod. "Do you guess all the patrons' drinks?"

"No, no. To be truthful, I'm not the bartender. I am the butler. My name is William Gates, I run Mr. Bell's household," Gates replied. "However, I saw you eying the bar a while ago, and thought I would come and," he smiled again, "introduce myself."

"Right," John took a long sip from his glass. "Well, apparently you already know me."

"Know of you," Gates corrected. "But yes, I should like to think so."

"I've no idea where he is, just so you know."

"Pardon?"

"Sherlock Holmes. They all ask that. He buggered off somewhere as soon as we got here. Haven't seen him for hours."

"Ah, what a pity," Gates drawled. "I'd rather hoped I could show off to him a bit. I've studied his methods, and I like to think I've learned a thing or two about deductive reasoning."

John tried not to scoff at that. There were always people who thought that, having read his blog, they could somehow "master the art" that was just a natural ability to Sherlock. "If I see him, I'll send him your way," he said as he turned to leave.

"If I may," Gates called him back before he could get more than a step away. "I'd like to try it out on you. Give you a 'reading', or whatever you call it."

John raised his brow. "You've seen my blog. Anything you can read off me, you probably read on there."

"No cheating," Gates smiled. "Cross my heart."

Well, it would be entertaining at the very least. "Fine," said John.

Gates' smile grew wider, if possible. Stepping around the bar, the man clasped his hands behind his back and began to glide in a slow circle around John. "You had a disturbance while shaving today. You're left handed, and you have a tremor when you aren't conscious of it." John clenched his hand at that remark. Gates continued. "But you're a Doctor. So, when you concentrate, you must be steady. I would surmise that, when shaving, that concentration keeps you still, as you have no other healing scars on your face. You do, however, have a fresh nick under your jaw on the right side. So, a disturbance."

John didn't respond at first. Gates was wearing a smug expression, looking down at him without tilting his head. John tensed his jaw. "Alright, well done," he said. "Yes, very well done. If I find Sherlock tonight, I'll be sure to send him your way." John turned on his heel to leave, had another thought, and looked back over his shoulder again. "Though for the record, Sherlock would have been able to 'surmise' what the disturbance was."

Gates shrugged. "I am, tragically, human."

John struggled not to glare back at him. He was smart, John would give him that, but the high and mighty attitude was off putting. With his drink in hand, he turned and headed back into the fray.

The sun hadn't even set yet. John wandered over to the window and looked out over the landscape. The manicured gardens surrounded the entire estate from what he could see, dotted with fountains and stone benches. The careful order then rolled off into the wild brush, dropping into the valley and rising up into the mountains. The estate was entirely isolated. John hadn't seen another living soul for kilometers after they left Edinburgh, and any house they did pass was hopelessly decayed. It might have been a charming area a hundred or so years ago. Now it was just downright creepy.

John turned away from the window when he'd had enough of the scenery, eyes traveling idly over the details of the pillars and the ceiling. As his attention was on its way back down toward the crowd, however, his gaze was caught on something else. Not for the first time that night, either. Standing at the top of the grand staircases, was a man in a beige, tweed suit. He was just standing there, looking down over the ballroom. _Ignatius Bell_ , John thought, but it was only a hunch. He was a tall, burly man, with large hands folded in front of him, and a head like an enormous block. His mustache was thick, and upturned in an old fashioned style. Even from that distance, John could see that he was observing the guests, and he had no idea what he could be looking for until his gaze landed on him. The two of them made eye contact for what seemed like an eternity. John found that he couldn't look away, or wouldn't out of pride. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. There was something about the man's eyes that had the effect of stripping him bare and laying him out to dissect. In the end, Mr. Bell was the one to look away, turning briskly and disappearing behind a heavy door. It was a minute before John felt he could move. When he could, though, he didn't really have anywhere to go. The music and activity of the gala was almost overwhelming at this point.

That's when he saw Sherlock again. It had just been glimpses all night, but now he watched just on the other end of the corridor of pillars as he walked toward the kitchens. Enough was enough. John was going to confront him. They were going to hash it out, and move the hell on, because neither of them were going to make it through the night if they didn't have each others company. John finished off his wine and set it on a round table filled with other empty glasses. Wiping off his mouth, he set off after Sherlock. The detective walked through the kitchen doors just as Jane Dawson was coming out, carrying a tray of butterscotch fudge squares. Sherlock side stepped her, and disappeared. As he passed, John gave the girl a friendly smile and swiped a piece of fudge off her tray. He didn't like sweets. Just wanted to earn a laugh.

John walked into the kitchen, and the silence hit him instantly. The drone of the party was cut by the doors between them, but all too loud in the empty kitchen. Empty. Completely desolate. Dust coated the tables and now floated in the moonbeams from the windows. The sun had set, finally, leaving the room in a cold, indigo light. John dropped the treat on the closest table, watching the impact create ripples in the grim. On the other side of the table, he could see where a finger had been wiped. _Dust is eloquent_ ,John remembered Sherlock saying. He'd been through here, but he was nowhere to be see, and it looked as if no one had cooked so much as an omelet in there in decades. This wasn't right, wasn't possible. John turned, eager to leave, only to find William Gates standing not a foot away. He hadn't even heard the butler enter.

"Lost, Dr. Watson?" he asked with an all too pleasant smile.

John cleared his throat "Just wanted to ask for the recipe."

"Yes, well," Gates chuckled, "we must all keep our secrets."

John didn't respond. Without so much as a nod, he left the room, circling around Gates as he did. He didn't like the idea of showing this man his back. It wasn't until he was through the swinging doors and back into the warm world of the party, that he could breathe easy. What he'd seen in the kitchen seemed like a surreal nightmare. John made a beeline back to the water table, hoping a bit of ice would calm his nerves.

Right back where he started. John stood where he'd begun this bizarre night, sipping at his water and counting down the minutes until he could get a cab back to the hotel. Whatever reason Mycroft wanted them there for was lost on him, and at his point, he didn't care. As he watched guests continue to mingle, his hand idly came up to scratch at a slight irritation on his neck. He hissed when he felt the skin pull, bringing his hand back to find a few specks of blood on his fingertips.

He had cut himself shaving that afternoon. It had been as they were getting ready for the gala, both showered and dried. Sherlock had been in the bedroom, setting his pressed suit out on the twin bed he'd claimed. John had been in the bathroom, of course, shaving.

"You brought your medals," Sherlock had pointed out as he laid out John's suit as well.

"Yep," John had replied. He could just barely see Sherlock through the reflection in the mirror. "It's a black tie event. Usually when we're supposed to wear the miniatures."

"Are you going to wear them?" Sherlock asked.

John struggled not to groan. "I don't know. Don't think so."

"Then why did you bring them?"

"Because it's tradition, and military etiquette."

"But you don't think you're going to wear them."

"No, Sherlock."

"You obviously planned on wearing them when you packed. Something changed your mind."

"Leave it alone."

"What was it?"

John had to force himself to take a deep breath before answering. He could feel his temper building up just beneath the surface of his cracking patience. "Because they are for a _Doctor_ , and I-"

"Oh for _God's sake,_ John, would you get over it?"

That had been the disturbance. The force and volume behind Sherlock's shout, the blatant annoyance in his tone, was what made John faulter for a moment and slice into his skin. John hissed under his breath and slammed the razor down on the sink counter. He grabbed a towel off the rack, roughly wiping away the leftover shaving cream and one streak of blood, before tossing it aside and storming out into the bedroom. "No, Sherlock, I will not fucking get over it!" he had shouted. "I let that man die. I didn't even think to check if he was still alive, I let him _hang_ there when I could have saved him."

Sherlock had rolled his eyes at that, and the juvenile attitude toward the subject only fueled John's rage. "The coroner's report said that Blessington's time of death was only a minute after we arrived on the scene."

"A minute is all it takes!"

"He'd been hanging long enough for Dr. Trevelyan to call us up three floors. I doubt very much it would have made any difference."

John had practically snarled. "You don't know that. _I'll_ never know that now."

Sherlock's expression had turned cold, stoic as he stepped forward and loomed over John. "You were an Army Doctor. You've had hundreds of patients die on your tables before you could tend to them. Don't be so transparent, John, and do not take your frustration out on me. Your emotional instability over death is only because of what happened to Ma-"

Sherlock hadn't gotten the chance to let another syllable slip. John had rammed into him, grabbing him by the collar, arm braced against his chest as he slammed him against the wall. "Don't you _dare_!" he roared. His throat as well as his eyes had started burning. Sherlock's expression had dropped, his indifferent mask giving way to shock and a sliver of fear. "Don't you dare go there," John seethed. "Do you even care? Are you so inhuman that you are incapable of feeling even the slighted remorse for a man who died under our watch?"

"Yes," Sherlock had replied once he'd recovered. "Is that the answer you were looking for? It is pointless to dwell on what could have been, John. We solved the case, we brought justice. If that is all I can do, and if that makes me inhuman, then so be it."

John had shoved Sherlock away, the force sending him stumbling back. "Fucking hell, Sherlock, that isn't enough!"

"Then make it enough!" Sherlock had retorted in a mocking tone. "Go write about it on your blog, make me the compassionate hero! I can save a kitten from a tree while I'm at it!"

"That's what you think I make you? Maybe I haven't been raw enough about the unprincipled drug addict delusional enough to believe he is the final court of law!" John had spat.

"I am delusional? Coming from the alcoholic veteran with a psychosomatic limp, it's hard to take that to heart!"

John had been rearing back for the punch. He had been so close to making it physical, but a stomping from the floor about them and a shout to "keep it down or take it outside" broke the moment. It had left the two of them standing off, both panting for breath. John was the one to break it, taking his suit and retreating to the bathroom with the door slammed shut. He was dressed within a minute, damn medals pinned to his breast pocket. He stopped only to take his wallet and his phone before he stormed out of the room. The next time he saw Sherlock, it was through the side view mirror of the cab.

"John," Sherlock stood in front of him. John was brought out of the violent memory by a low and urgent voice, in stark contrast to the shouting still ringing in his ears. He blinked, hadn't even noticed Sherlock approaching him. Now, his hand was gentle on his arm, and his eyes were soft, but urgent. "John," Sherlock whispered again. "Come on, we need to leave. Now."

"I- Sherlock, what the hell are you talking about?" said John as he ripped his arm away.

Sherlock looked back over his shoulder, searching for something in the churning crowd. "John, please. We don't have time for this. We have to go."

John opened his mouth to respond, but all that left was a gasp. A scream tore out from the middle of the crowd. He and Sherlock exchanged a glance and that was all that needed. Personal tension put aside, argument forgotten. They ran headfirst into the throng, pushing guests aside to get to the epicentre. A ring had been formed of whispering and shocked bystanders, the rest of the party goers either struggling to get a glimpse at what was happening, or struggling to get away. When Sherlock and John finally broke through, they found a man sprawled out on the ground. His eyes were wide, but unmoving, glazed over as they stared up at nothing. His skin was already ashy and lifeless.

"Move back," John barked to the guests. He dropped down to his knees beside the body, going through the well trained motions. Two fingers checked for a pulse, his palm in front of the man's mouth checked for breath. Neither were present. He was still warm, though, and John wasn't going to make the same mistake twice. Making a fist with his left hand and covering it with his right, John pressed down hard on the victim's chest.

Sherlock knelt down on the other side, his phone slipping out of his pocket and onto the marble floor as he did. "John, I don't think-"

"Let me try," John hissed. Sherlock did not argue. Another three sets of compressions and breaths passed before John finally sat back and realized that the man was beyond his help.

Not a second after John removed his hands from the body, the room went dark. Shrieks of fear echoed off the vaulted ceilings as every light blew out, and the curtains were all pulled shut by an invisible force. In the darkness, John reached out for Sherlock, latching onto his shoulder while another latched onto his own. When the lights came back on, the corpse was nowhere to be found. All in a matter of seconds. Sherlock let go of John and jumped to his feet, spinning around in circles as he searched through the crowd for something, anything, that would give him a lead on what was happening.

John, however, stayed on the ground. His gaze was drawn down to Sherlock's phone. He reached down and turned it over, the screen still on.

Contact: Mycroft

[18:20] You owe me at least two months of radio silence for this. SH

[18:28] This place is odd, I'll give you that, but if you want me to get something, I'll need more data. SH

[18:29] What on earth are you talking about? MH

[18:39] Ignatius Bell. Gala outside of Edinburgh. You sent the invitation. SH

[18:40] Ramses. SH

[18:40] MOSES. MH

[18:40] EXODUS. MH

The crowd had already dispersed by the time he looked up. John watched as a group of men tried to throw themselves at the grand doors, the heavy clang of a lock refusing to give away reverberating back. Sherlock was watching them as hysteria took over the crowd, until he looked down at John again. There was the understanding again, the unspoken agreement. He lent his hand down, and the Doctor took it, standing up at his side. They'd face peril together, no second thoughts, no conditions.

"A fraudulent invitation," Sherlock began in a low murmur. "A murder, dozens of witnesses. Lights go out, body disappears. Doors are bolted, no one leaves. The perfect locked room mystery. Someone's staged this for us."

"Sherlock," John whispered. "Look."

Sherlock turned away from the impenetrable doors to follow John's line of sight. The two of them stood at the bottom of the twin staircases, where at the top, Ignatius Bell stood looking down at them. He made no gestures, no acknowledgment. He just stared among the chaos, and they stared back. Then, he turned, and he disappeared behind the heavy oak door behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

Dust as we are, the immortal spirit grows

Like harmony in music; there is a dark

Inscrutable workmanship that reconciles

Discordant elements, makes them cling together

In one society. How strange, that all

The terrors, pains, and early miseries,

Regrets, vexations, lassitudes interfused

Within my mind, should e'er have borne a part,

And that a needful part, in making up

The calm existence that is mine when I

Am worthy of myself!

\- The Prelude, William Wordsworth

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Sherlock bolted up the stairs, long legs taking the steps two at a time. He raced around the curve, up to the landing where the staircases joined and rose up one more flight to the second floor. With John sprinting up behind him, Sherlock threw himself at the door, ramming his shoulder against the lock. "Bell!" he roared, the baritone of his voice echoing into the vaulted ceiling. He slammed his fist against the door. "Bell, open up!"

No answer, of course, but that was to be expected. Sherlock stumbled back a few paces, his gaze dropping down to catch John's. They both nodded, wordlessly bracing themselves, before running together at the door. At once, they threw their collective weight onto the wood paneling. The locks creaked but did not give away. Nursing sore shoulders, the two of them turned back to the ballroom floor below.

Mass panic was to be expected. A group of five or six men were attempting the same feat John and Sherlock had at the front door, with similar results. The rest of them were just sort of scattered, spilling into every corner of the room. Their voices were a feverish hum, bouncing off the great walls. For a long moment, the two men just stood there, absorbing their surroundings and situation. Sherlock laid his hands on the railing that surrounded the perimeter of the second floor around the ball room. Long, slender fingers curled around the aged oak.

"Exodus," John said to his right.

Sherlock's brow creased as he looked down at him. "What?"

"Exodus," John repeated. His back was straight, hands at his sides clenching and unclenching as he watched the crowd. "That's what Mycroft texted you."

"You looked at my phone," said Sherlock.

"You dropped it," John shrugged. "Code?"

Sherlock nodded slowly, eyes sweeping the chaos below them. "Like the biblical story. Book of Exodus, the Pharaoh Ramses grants his brother Moses permission to leave Egypt, only to betray him on the shore of the Red Sea. When I realized that Mycroft had no idea about the gala, it followed that someone had faked his identity- convincing enough to fool even me. So, my brother, sending me somewhere only to fall into a fatal trap. Ramses is the question, Moses is the confirmation. Exodus, the plea. Apparently, though, we were too slow to exit 'Egypt' ourselves."

That much was evident. The ballroom floor was a madhouse of justifiable panic. It seemed a little - apathetic, the two of them just standing on the top of the staircases and casually watching the chaos. Like watching ants flee a flooded mound. However, there was a composure about them, both getting into a shared head space to deal with this nightmare. Just a moment to breathe before they ran headfirst into this. John steadied himself, let the adrenaline seep away and calm take its place. It was a state of ease, as disturbing as it was to think about it, when he found himself in situations of great danger. It was familiar. He knew his purpose, his place, and his skills. Taking a rough breath in through his nose, he turned to Sherlock. "Right," he said. "Seeing this through, then. Only option."

"So it would seem. Have you got your gun?"

"Why would I bring my gun to a gala in Scotland?"

"Do you have it?"

John huffed under his breath, reaching into a pocket in the lining of his suit and showing the weapon to Sherlock.

The detective smiled, though the expression was dim. "Bloody soldier. That's illegal, you know."

John slipped the gun back into his blazer. "I know. What do we do now?"

Sherlock pursed his lips before answering promptly. "This." No sooner had the word left his mouth than Sherlock hopped to, practically siding down the bannister to the first landing of the stairs. "Ladies and gentleman would you please shut up!" he shouted, and his voice boomed with a force and power that had everyone - well, doing just that. All at once, the ballroom became very quiet. Sherlock clapped his hands together. "Better. Good evening, I hate to put a damper on the party, but you've all just become witnesses to a murder. Terribly inconvenient, I know. I was just beginning to enjoy the pecan tarts."

John rolled his eyes, stifling a groan under his breath as he descended the stairs at his own pace.

One man spoke up from within the crowd of men that had been trying to break down the main door. "Who said anything 'bout a murder? Could have been - a heart attack, aneurism, or something. An accident."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed sharply. "Yes, and then I am sure the lights accidentally blew out, and the doors just happened to lock, and the body on the floor coincidentally disappeared without a trace. Please keep your mouth just and pray that morons aren't being targeted. Your corpse might be the next to accidentally vanish."

"Sherlock," John snapped as he stepped up to his side.

Sherlock's gaze only flickered down to him briefly. "Now, if you'd stop wasting my time, we might make some progress. Remarkably, I don't fancy spending my evening trapped in a murderous mansion. Do any of you?" No one replied. "I thought not," said Sherlock. With a slow, almost predatory pace, he descended the staircase curving to the left. The crowd below was entranced, holding their breath collectively as they watched him move. It was a natural effect that Sherlock had on people. John watched from the landing, his focus drifting between the sleuth and the party guests.

"I need more data," Sherlock murmured as he reached the bottom of the stairs. "You," he gestured to a portly man with a shock of red hair framing the crown of his head, "Coburg Square, smoker, freemason, pawn broker. What is your name? What reason would an author have in inviting _you_ to a gala in Scotland?" The man stammered a moment too long. "Out with it, man!"

"I don't know!" he cried. "I mean- my name is Jabez Wilson. Mr. Bell said in the invitation that he wished to inquire about a few antiques I have in my store. But how-"

Sherlock spun away from him before he could finish his sentence, making his way into the centre of the crowd. The guests parted around him, and from his vantage point, John couldn't help but be reminded of the Red Sea.

"You," Sherlock pointed to a younger man in an ill fitting suit and a bandage around his right hand.

The young man stiffened. "Victor Hatherley, sir."

"I'm not a Sir, I work for a living," Sherlock hissed. "Engineer, correct?"

"Yes, si- yes. I lost my thumb while I was repairing a binding press at the printing house where Mr. Bell's books are published. He wrote to invite me while I was in the hospital, as a sort of apology, I guess," Hatherley replied.

Sherlock shook his head, obviously unsatisfied. He cast a scrutinizing glance to a young lady behind him. She spoke up unprompted, realizing now what he was going to ask. "Helen Stoner. I'm a herpetologist. Mr. Bell wrote saying that he had some questions regarding Indian Swamp Adders for his new book and invited me to the gala so we could get the chance to speak in person. That was all he said."

Sherlock steepled his fingers, raising his hands to his mouth as he paced in the middle of the circle he'd created for himself in the center of the crowd. The brief interviews continued, the web surrounding Ignatius Bell growing wider and looser with every answer. They were in the company of bankers, surgeons, heirs, and ministers; actresses, miners, sailors, and 'self-employed spiritualist with an upcoming etsy shop'. Mr. Bell might as well have thrown the invitations out his window and let the wind carry them to strangers' doorsteps. No one had a single thing in common, or a single valid reason to be there.

"So, as I understand it," said Sherlock, "no one here has ever met our host in person?"

An uneasy silence swept the room. The guests looked from one to another, shuffling their feet as the truth set in. Sherlock clicked his tongue, tried to figure out what to make of this information.

John had reached the bottom of the stairs at this point. He stepped ahead Sherlock with a pat on the shoulder, a casual touch in passing. "Hattie and Francis Moulton?" he called into the crowd, and the couple slipped their way to the front. Hattie's makeup was running, and she shivered as she clung to Francis' arm. The two of them were obviously terrified. John addressed them gently. "You said that Bell was a friend of your father's. You never met him while you lived in England?"

Hattie shook her head. "No... when I got the invitation, Mr. Bell had said that he was part of Daddy's rugby club. I recognized the name somehow, can't really remember, but Daddy spoke a lot about his friends there."

John looked back at Sherlock to find him pacing vigorously, fingers pressed to his lips and brow furrowed. "A man who has connections with everyone and no one."

"What about you, then?" A tall, expensively dressed man spoke up from Sherlock's right. The detective stopped where he was to face him, and the man stepped forward in response. "What was your 'connection' to him?"

"No connection," Sherlock replied tersely. "He faked the invitation from my brother, had to try a little _harder_ to convince me to be here than a call-collect vacation give away."

"What are you insinuating?" The man sneered.

Behind John, Hattie sighed and glared up at the man. "Leave him alone, Robert. He's just trying to help."

Sherlock spun around to face the young woman. "What did you say?"

Hattie looked started for a moment. "I told him that you're trying to help."

"No," Sherlock snapped, pointing at her as he approached. "His name, you said his name. You know him?"

"Yes," Hattie replied rather awkwardly. "His name is Robert, Lord St. Simon. We were, ehm... engaged a few years ago.

"Before you left me for that bootlicker!" St. Simon roared.

Sherlock looked back to St. Simon with a venomous snarl. "If you could keep your petty abandonment issues out of this murder investigation, it would be _much_ appreciated, Lord St. Simon." With the man left sputtering in indignation, Sherlock turned his back to him in favour of continuing with Hattie. "You know him," he repeated. "Did you know that your ex-fiance would be attending the gala?"

"Of course not," Hattie replied. Francis draped an arm over her shoulder. "I'm not sure if it would have stopped us from coming, but it isn't something I could ignore, either."

Sherlock nodded, having stopped listening the moment she answered his question outright. "Could be a coincidence, but the guest list is too scattered," he murmured to himself. "Three guests know each other, more than that, they have a history. Most hosts would avoid such drama at an event, and only invite one party, but Ignatuis Bell- no, he wants the tension. Up the anti."

Lord St. Simon huffed, crossing his arms. "I'm fairly certain killing a guest and locking everyone inside would create enough tension on its own, Mr. Holmes. Besides, it's obviously Bell! You know it's him, mystery solved."

"Yes!" Sherlock snapped, "Mystery solved, splendid! Except for the motive, the plan, and the execution. Knowing who is behind this does not exactly unlock the doors!"

The two men were in each others faces at this point, practically chest to chest in a heated stand off. John rarely ever saw Sherlock in such a state of unbridled anger, opposed to his usual callousness. It was at this point that he knew that something was wrong. There was, however, no time to sit and think about it. John placed his hands on Sherlock's shoulders and pulled him back before an all out brawl started up on the middle of the dancefloor. "That's enough, Sherlock," he said quietly, just to him, though all the while he was glaring at Lord. St. Simon.

Sherlock struggled only once on reflex when John pulled him back. When his head was clear enough to think properly, he cleared his throat and straightened up. With a tug at the collar of his suit jacket, the detective threw one last snarl at Lord St. Simon before stalking off toward a shadowy space underneath the staircase, where a few doors led to coat closets and the like. John watched him walk away before sending Hattie and Francis an apologetic nod and following after him. When he rounded the corner banister, he found Sherlock trying to force open one door in the middle that wouldn't budge. The other two closet doors had already been flung wide open, and were still swaying on their hinges. "Sher-Sherlock!" John struggled to get his attention. It wasn't until his hand came to rest on the man's shoulder that he finally stopped.

Sherlock looked down at John, and for just that moment, John understood. Despite his earlier bravado, Sherlock was truly disturbed. Sherlock didn't say anything at first, his lips parted as he caught his breath. Then, he let go of the door nob and ran his hand back through his mess of curls. "The dust, John," he swallowed hard. "You can't replace dust."

"I think I know what you mean," said John.

"I noticed it as soon as we came in. You had- already entered, obviously. I saw you head straight to the drinks table and-" he stopped, his gaze bordering apologetic, "didn't touch anything. Besides the point. I noticed the dust, John. Even in a house this size, the amount of dust in the air was uncanny. I'm surprised no one was choking. I began wandering around the ballroom, trying to find anything out of the ordinary. Didn't find a thing until I saw the kitchens. You went to the kitchens too, you came in after me, I saw you tailing behind. The kitchens are _empty_ , covered in a hundred years worth of dust. No appliances save for cast iron boilers, ovens, and a hearth. Yet there has been food coming out of it all night. No catering boxes, no second kitchen anywhere in the vicinity of the ballroom. Food's too fresh to have come from anywhere else. There is no logical explanation for this, and yet _it is happening_. Then there's the murder. The lights were only out a second, and I felt the floor right next to the body. No openings, no hollow space. And the music. No band, no speakers, but there was music. The question is, how. And why? Why? _Why_?"

"Alright, calm down," John interjected. "This... this is obviously unlike anything we've faced before. Doesn't mean there isn't a perfectly sound way to figure it all out, yeah? There always is. This place has got us on edge is all."

"I've always been able to rely on my senses, John," Sherlock replied slowly. "Eliminate the impossible. But now, the impossible is all that remains. You can't replace dust," he took a deep breath. He turned back toward the ballroom, face awash in the warm glow of the distant chandeliers. His eyes became distant. "Promise me, John. Promise me right now that I'm not," he gestured vaguely to his head, and as his hand dropped back down, his fingertips lightly grazed the inside of his arm.

John didn't often use the phrase 'heart break', but there was no other description for the crack he felt in his chest. Sherlock still struggled with his addiction, likely would for the rest of his life. It wasn't a demon to be slain. Rather, the fiend wasn't dead, but merely sleeping. It had, once in the past, reared its ugly head. John would never forget the incident on the plane, realizing Sherlock had relapsed and overdosed to the point that he struggled to tell reality from a fiction he'd created deep inside his head. Since then, that had been one of Sherlock's greatest underlying fears; that one day, he would just fall apart, and his most valuable skill of being able to dissect reality would shatter. That he would be forever trapped inside his once extraordinary mind.

This, understandably, was hell. John could see the lack of colour in Sherlock's skin, the way his chest rattled slightly with every breath. Sherlock was afraid. John felt a rush of air leave him at the dawn of realization. For a moment, he struggled to think of a way to comfort him.

In the end, he settled on reaching up and pinching the back of Sherlock's neck. Hard.

"Christ, John," Sherlock hissed, his hand flying up to smack John's away and nurse the sore spot.

"You felt that?" asked John.

Sherlock glared down at him. "Of course I did."

"Can you think of any reason, if you weren't entirely lucid, that you would feel short, intense pain specifically on the back of your neck?"

Sherlock shook his head, slowly coming to understand John's motive. "No."

"Right. Then the only explanation is that right here, in an eerie mansion outside Edinburgh, John Watson was a dickhead and pinched you," he shrugged. "Should you need another reality check tonight, let me know."

Sherlock's hand dropped down again, his expression turning from pallid to fond. His eyes softened. The both of them were silent, all that needed to be said going unsaid and understood perfectly. Sherlock nudged John with his elbow for a minor revenge before turning his focus back to the terrified party guests. He exhaled. "We need data on our host before we can get any further," he said. "But it would seem that no one here has ever met Ignatius A. C. Bell in person."

John stepped up to Sherlock's side, eyes sweeping the ballroom along with him. It didn't seem to be a problem they could solve from under the stairs, and he had been about to voice that when he realized he could be wrong. On the open hall of the second floor, kneeling down before the rails and curling her fingers around the spindles like prison bars, Jane Dawson watched the crowd on the ballroom floor. "That may not be true," he said as he pointed her out. "That's the maid, Jane. I spoke to her earlier, she said she's read the blog. She's got to know who she works for, right?"

Sherlock followed John's gaze. "Excellent, John. We'll speak to her first."

"Okay, just be reasonable. Don't go hounding the girl, demanding answers. She seemed a little skittish, and you might scare- for fuck's sake," John groaned as Sherlock darted off without listening. The turnabout on his mood certainly was quick enough. Suspecting that damage control would be needed, John followed after him. They curved around the banister and climbed the stairs without the panicked urgency of their previous flight. It was determination that fueled their pace now.

Breathing was a little easier now that they were literally standing above the madness below. Sherlock approached Jane before John had caught up. "Your employer," he said. "Tell me everything you know about him."

Startled by the sudden and intimidating appearance of the man stalking toward her, Jane scrambled back with a gasp. Her lack of response only irritated Sherlock.

"His habits, his temperament, how he takes his tea, I need everything," he pressed.

"I'm sorry, I... I can't," Jane stammered.

John sighed gruffly as he trailed behind Sherlock, about two seconds away from pinching him again just for being an ass. He lifted his hand, but it fell to his side a moment later, as Sherlock knelt down to Jane's level. His posture spoke gentility, but his voice was firm.

"Jane, is it?" he asked, and she nodded. "Do you know my name?"

Jane nodded slowly. "Sherlock Holmes."

"Yes," said Sherlock. "And you know what I do?"

Jane nodded again. Her face was pale enough to warrant John taking a step forward in case she fainted.

Sherlock continued. "What can you tell me about Ignatius Bell?"

"I can't," said Jane.

Sherlock looked back over his shoulder at John before turning back to Jane. "Right. Then tell me about the food. Catering? Where does it come from?"

Jane seemed rather winded at the sudden change in topic. Her eyes flickered between John and Sherlock. "Well... I'm not sure, really. I just bring it out from the kitchens."

Sherlock frowned, visibly unsatisfied with the answer. However, he continued. "How old is the manor?"

"It was built about," Jane paused, "1895, I believe."

"Do you know of any trap doors, old servants quarters that might lead around the house and grounds?"

Jane's face paled stark white. She sounded for a moment like she might choke.

Sherlock waved a sharp hand between them, dismissing the question. "Mr. Bell is an author. What kinds of books does he write? What genre?"

"He..." Jane licked her lips, staring off at the heavy oak doors her employer had long ago disappeared behind. "He writes... historic fiction, and sometimes mysteries, but rarely. He's mostly into spiritualism."

Sherlock leaned forward on his knee. "And can you tell me his full name?"

Jane's mouth clamped shut. She shook her head.

Again, Sherlock left the question alone and continued. "How long have you been working in Mr. Bell's household?"

"Oh," Jane sighed, "it's been so long, I can hardly remember when I started. Years ago."

It was John that stepped forward this time, a troubled frown marring his expression. "How old are you?"

"21."

John inhaled to respond, but Sherlock lifted his hand and cut him off before he could speak. "Alright, the guest list for the party. Have you seen it?"

Jane nodded. The more questions she answered the more anxious she became. "I-I brought the invitations to the post office to be mailed out, but that's all."

"And the deceased," Sherlock pressed on, "do you know who he was?"

Jane cast her eyes down at her hands. Gnarled and calloused fingers curled into her apron on her lap. "I, ehm... I think I remember taking his coat when he arrived. Enoch Drebber."

"Do you recall where you put his coat?"

"No, sorry."

Sherlock considered his next question. "How often is the manor dusted?"

"I dust everything about once a week. Mr. Bell is very particular."

John interrupted. "Sounds like you do a lot. Is there no other staff in this place?"

"Oh, well, ehm... there is Mr. Gates, and... there's..." breath spiking, Jane realized her mistake in responding at all and shut down.

Sherlock didn't bother to hide his frustration. He exhaled sharply, clenching his jaw as he rose to his feet once again. "One last question," he said. Towering over the young woman now, his shadow stretched over her. "That dress you're wearing. Uniform, or yours personally?"

Jane wasn't the only one startled and confused by the question. John raised a brow at Sherlock, receiving not even a glance as he stared down at Jane in want of an answer. Jane straightened up, freeing one hand from her apron to ghost along the high neck line of her dress. "It's... it's mine."

Without another word or acknowledgment, Sherlock nodded and strode off. John was left dumbfounded for a moment, watching as his companion walked away. When he turned back to apologize to the young maid, she had unexpectedly risen to her feet, clutching the railing for support. "I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes," she called out meekly. "I'm sorry. You're... you're not at all what I expected."

Sherlock slowed to a brisk hault, the line of his shoulders taught, and the slip of bare skin at the nape of his neck, just above the collar, prominent as he bowed his head. In the next beat, he was turning around and moving toward her. John stood between them, but did not impede Sherlock's steady and cold gaze. "If you read John's accounts of our cases and expect me to dash about in a blaze of heroics, you've only yourself to blame for your disappointment. I am not the white knight he depicts me as. White knights do not exist and the sooner you get that through your head, the better off you will be. There is no room for heroics here. That version of me does not exist. If you wish to feel comforted, or safe, continue to lie to yourself, as I am very aware that I am not at all what you expected. Your employer is very likely a psychotic murderer, who cares as little about your life as he does mine or anyone else's. Perhaps you should expect that, it might keep you alive tonight."

John listened in horror as each venomous syllable spilled from Sherlock's lips, fury and disappointment settling like lead in his stomach. The moment the sleuth was finished, he turned on his heel and walked away again, leaving John behind to struggle at comprehension. This was nothing new, Sherlock had an unsteady temperament, and was often set off on speeches like _that_ by the slightest inclination. However, the sheer force of his volatile change spoke of something else at play. John recovered, turning back to apologize once again to Jane, only to find that she had vanished.

"What the hell was that about?" John asked when he caught up.

Sherlock did not so much as slow down as he descended the grand staircase. "Jane remembered the victim's name. She claims to have learned it when she took the man's coat as he came in, but with the dozens upon dozens of people who passed through the manor doors tonight, he couldn't have possibly stood out. She could have an excellent memory, but she does not recall where she put the coat, not even seconds after supposedly learning the man's name. Besides the fact, there was no formal coat check. Despite it being Autumn, the gala began in the late afternoon, when it was too warm out to be wearing a coat, or at least anything heavy enough to put into a check."

John grunted as they reached the bottom of the stairs. "That's not what I-"

"The name had to have stood out to her for another reason. We have to consider her an accessory to the crime," Sherlock pushed roughly through the crowd to make it to the table where the food had been set out. "And then there's the menu for tonight," he said as he picked up a lemon square, chewed twice, and spat it back into the paper shell. "Poison is my first instinct, it would be easy to slip something into the food. However, we've all been eating the same things. If Miss Dawson and this Mr. Gates man are truly the only staff, and at this point it is a strong possibility, it would have been too obvious if either of them had administered something directly to Drebber. Insidious, but obvious."

"Sherlock," John hissed, grabbing his forearm before he could dart off again. "Stop it. Now." Eyes sweeping their surroundings, John deemed that more privacy was necessary, and dragged Sherlock behind one of the massive pillars close by. It was only when they were at least somewhat alone that he let go of Sherlock's arm. "I meant what in God's name where you going off at Jane for? The whole white knight speech, what is your problem?"

Though he was startled at first by the force of John's grip and the sharp edge of his anger, Sherlock lifted his chin and narrowed his eyes down at the doctor. "If you are offended on behalf of your creative license, I can assure you that you give yourself far too much credit," he spat. Sherlock attempted to rip away from John, but the stubborn, prideful, noble, _bloody Soldier_ blocked his path.

"No. That's not it, and you know it. Cut the shit, Sherlock. I don't care if you're on edge because you're spooked by this place, I already gave you a free pass for that earlier. Where do you get off thinking its perfectly alright to rip into a terrified girl who did nothing but sit through your interrogation?"

"I have no time for delusional characterizations, John," Sherlock hissed. "The version of me that she expected is a fiction. I'm not..." he ran a hand back through his hair. "I'm not-"

"You're not what?" John snapped.

"I'm not as good a man as you make me out to be!" Sherlock roared.

In the aftermath of the outburst, neither man said a word. For a breathless moment, they stood staring at each other, and that was all. Emotions varied, flitting through their eyes, in the twitch of their lips, the crease of their foreheads, but no words were said. The tension dropped from John's shoulders as his expression settled on a sad realization. Sherlock looked like he was torn between throwing himself through the window or curling up into a ball- anything to escape John's penetrating gaze.

John broke the stalemate first, of course. It was just a rough exhale at first, rattling his whole chest. He had to collect himself. "Sherlock," he began, and though it had only been a few seconds of silence, his voice strained as if he hadn't spoken in years. "You know... my accounts are as close to the truth as my memory can make them. You may not, but I do believe every single world I write about you."

Sherlock tried to disguise the little glimmer of surprise, of hope, that lifted his brows. Honestly, if he thought John didn't notice, he was an idiot, and he knew it. It was just a passing second, but his face softened, and following John's suite, his shoulders dropped and the breath fled his lungs.

And again, it happened in the space of a blink. A scream tore out from the buzzing crowd, eliciting another heightened frenzy. A look was exchanged, and within seconds, the two of them were pushing their way through the crowd to find the next victim. He was on the outer edge of the throng this time, but on the other side of the room from where John and Sherlock had been. By the time they raced to his side, even John knew that he was beyond help. As John removed his fingers from the man's neck, Sherlock took control. If they could expect another blackout like the last time, he knew he had limited time to work.

Sherlock was vaguely aware of crying and hysterics scattered throughout the crowd, of the eyes on him, but he let it all drip away. His attention narrowed down to a single focal point, the corpse lying on the ground in front of him. First, Sherlock bent over and sniffed the slack jawed mouth of the victim, noting instantly the metallic stench. Poison, then. The 'how' would be saved for later, when he'd gathered all the data he could, but for now he filed it away and continued. Sherlock ripped open the man's suit jacket. His hands worked feverishly to search out what he was looking for; a wallet stuffed into the inner pocket. He flipped it open to read the I.D. Joseph Strangerson. Aged 41. American from Utah. Unhappy relationship with his father from the state of the leather, but he's sentimental.

Sherlock felt the lights going out like a vacuum shoved down his throat. The wallet dropped from his hands, as John's firm grip wrapped around his arm in the darkness. Sherlock found himself latching onto him in return before he could think. Hardly a second passed before the lights came on again, as blinding as the howl of the crowd was deafening. The body was gone. With the petrifying spectacle over with, the guests all turned to one another again, shrieking and sobbing exclamations of fear. John and Sherlock, though, remained where they were, staring in one place.

On the floor where Joseph Strangerson's body had been was now a small, square fold of paper. Red wax sealed it shut, imprinted with the same crest Sherlock had seen on the invitation. Sherlock plucked it off the ground and broke the wax, still warm and sticky, to open the letter.

 _How do you kill a man who will not die?_

 _Who falls without landing?_

 _Who rises without standing?_

 _What is the one way to destroy Sherlock Holmes?_

Sherlock didn't hear John's demands to read the note until the paper was snatched from his hands. He was vaguely aware of the haunting words being read aloud by a voice that quivered on the final name. Everything and nothing was clicking neatly into place. Sherlock turned his attention gradually toward John. The man's knuckles were white as he gripped the letter, but his face was firm. Resolute. He could see that John had every urge to rip the paper to shreds, with his trembling hands, but he restrained, instead shoving it into his pocket for evidence.

"You are not to leave my sight," John forced out. He reached out to hold Sherlock by his shoulders, forcing him to look him in the eyes. "Do you understand me?" His voice was still trembling. "Sherlock, you are _not, under any circumstances_ to leave my sight."

Sherlock nodded. He shouldn't have been so taken about by the ferocity of John's reaction. In one second, he was startled, in the next, intrigued. It took a while for the gravity of the situation to crash down on him. Sherlock was not afraid. This was not the first threat on his life, and if he did his job right, it would not be the last. So, Sherlock nodded, sinking into the depth of John's gaze.

Pushing himself to his feet, Sherlock rose up and walked through the mob in a dumb sort of state. John followed, of course, cursing him out, but Sherlock didn't hear. He stopped where Enoch Drebber had dropped dead barely twenty minutes ago and bent to pick up something indiscernible off the floor. When Sherlock turned to him and extended his open palm, John's hand immediately flew up to his breast pocket. In all the commotion, he'd never noticed that his miniatures had fallen off. Evidently, when he'd been trying to save Drebber.

The look in Sherlock's eyes said everything- a reliance on John's skills as a Doctor, a Soldier, and a comrade. The one person in the world Sherlock trusted unconditionally with his life. He'd been a complete ass all night, and while a small gesture would not absolve him of his actions and words, it was a start. Sherlock pinned the assortment of ribbons and medals to the pocket of John's black vest this time, so he wouldn't lose them. As he smoothed his hand over the fabric on John's chest, lingering a little too long, their argument in the hotel and every subsequent one, echoed in both their ears.

Sherlock fussed with John's miniatures once more before letting his hands fall back to his sides. "As you command then, Doctor."


	3. Chapter 3

Where a faint light shines alone,

Dwells a Demon I have known.

Most of you had better say

"The Dark House," and go your way.

Do not wonder if I stay.

...

And I know that in one room

Burns a lamp as in a tomb;

And I see the shadow glide,

Back and forth, of one denied

Power to find himself outside.

-The Dark House, Edwin Arlington Robinson

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

There was a light out on the far left side of the ballroom. Each pillar surrounding the grand space was adorned with one brass sconce and a frosted glass fixture, each with a pretty little flame inside. Each of them, but the one in the furthest corner, where the light was needed the most. Behind that pillar, the long black curtains absorbed what little light there was to spare. A plain looking door creaked open under the cover of that darkness, partially hidden by the drapery. Jane Dawson crept into the ballroom, hands braced on the cool marble as she peeked out ever so slightly just to glimpse the dour party.

Not far from her, although flustered guests moved back and forth between her and them, Jane could see Sherlock Holmes and John Watson sharing a- she could only call it intimate- moment. She watched, dark eyes glinting with curiosity, as Holmes fussed with a little trinket on Watson's suit. Watson was entirely still as he did so, his gaze steady on Holmes' hands before drifting up to his eyes. Holmes' hands fell back to his sides, and neither of them moved. The guests swarmed, trying in vain to open windows and doors, but the two of them were calm together. In their element.

But there was something else. There was something there, unspoken. It was in their delicacy and familiarity of touch, their slow movements, assured stance, and all too hesitant advances. Jane watched all of this unfold. From her place behind the pillar, Jane watched as the two of them spoke briefly, checking each other over, before they turned as one toward the crowd again. It had only been a moment, but Jane had _seen_ it. The moment was enough.

"Enjoying the view, Miss Dawson?"

Jane gasped, stumbling around with her back pressed against the pillar, to find Mr. Gates looming over her. His gaze was fixed on the golden lights and panicked crowd with a distant sort of smile. Jane still felt his presence like a furnace. She cleared her throat. "I was just watching."

"Yes, so I noticed," Gates laughed humorlessly. "You've met Holmes, then?"

"I have," Jane nodded as she turned around again, hugging close to the pillar as she peered out. "He is... not at all what I had expected."

Gates' attention flickered down to the young woman. "How so?"

"Well," Jane began, "when he first approached me, he was... harsh, I'd call it. He was demanding, but very focused. He started to ask me questions about Mr. Bell-"

Gates' eyes narrowed. "And what did you tell him?"

Jane's head snapped back to glare up at him. Though she feigned anger and confidence, apprehension seeped through her gaze. "I am not thick, Mr. Gates. I didn't tell him anything incriminating."

Mr. Gates tilted his head. "Be it at your discretion then, Miss Dawson. You were saying?"

Jane let her gaze linger warily on Gates a moment longer before turning back to the ballroom. "He was harsh. That is what I expected, but when he realized that I was - cautious, it was almost as if he softened. It was just as Watson was catching up to him, like he was a reminder, Holmes eased up. He is not as unfeeling as I thought he might be."

Gates nodded, turning his attention to the pair in question. "It is just so in Watson's writing. He often describes Holmes as a cold hearted man. 'All emotions, and that one particularly,' that being love, 'were abhorrent to his cold, precise but admirably balanced mind'. I believe that is the quote," Gates leered. "However, the actions and affections he writes into his character tell another story entirely. The content always says otherwise. An interesting paradox, don't you think so?"

"I suppose," said Jane. "Though I wonder why Watson would do that."

Gates only shrugged, adjusting the cufflinks on his sleeves. "For sensation, I would say. That, or Watson may not even be aware that he is doing it."

That answer clearly did not satisfy Jane. She glanced back at her companion, then to the floor with her bottom lip between her teeth, and out to the crowd again. Watson and Holmes were calling the guests together, attempting to take charge. It would do no good. She'd known that from the beginning. Nothing would. Still, their positive ignorance was comforting to witness, and even more so the way the two of them stood in quiet solidarity with one another. She watched, entranced, as when they turned to walk toward the kitchen, Watson led Holmes away with a hand on the small of his back, a gesture of support and protection. It was only a moment, a brief touch that dropped no more than a second later, but Jane had seen it. The moment was enough.

Jane frowned, though her face was soft as she licked her lips and spoke slowly. "You don't... you don't suppose..."

"Hm? Suppose what?" asked Gates.

Jane struggled to find the nerve to speak her mind. "That there could be something more there? Something... intimate between them?"

Gates laughed. She'd barely gotten her last syllable out and he chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. "Don't be absurd. There's nothing _there_."

Jane twisted around, offense burning in the pit of her stomach. "You saw it, you've been watching them just as I have. It's there, you're just not willing to see i-"

"Now Jane, don't be _hysterical_ ," Gates bit out. Jane went silent in an instant, leaning back against the pillar like she'd been winded. Gates stepped closer. Jane pressed back. "Perhaps you could take a page from Holmes. You may feel these flights of passion. Control them. They've only served to undo you in the past. Stay focused." Gates walked away. Jane felt the air off his coat tails in passing and reminded herself she could breathe once his shadow was no longer on her. Sinking down against the pillar, she found herself sitting on the floor in a daze. Her gaze rose up to the black velvet curtains, and the one sliver of moonlight creeping through.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

"As you command then, Doctor."

Sherlock and John faced off to each other, and with one wordless nod, walked off to the staircase. They climbed up only three steps, just to get an elevation over the manic crowd. The second murder had, predictably, set them off again but it was getting them nowhere. The exits were sealed, and the windows were too high to break and climb out. However, that didn't mean they weren't trying. Sherlock huffed in annoyance.

"Everyone shut up!" he shouted. No success. The guests continued on in ignorance and desperation. Their voices were a disharmonious wail. Sherlock scowled. "Everyo- I said shut up! Stop!"

A high pitched whistle cut through the noise in an instant. Sherlock's attention snapped down to his side, where John was pulling two fingers out of his mouth and staring out over the crowd with rigid posture. "Quiet," he boomed, and though he did not shout, his voice echoed off the vaulted ceiling. When a moment or two of desired silence had passed, John looked up at Sherlock with a quirked brow. "You were saying?"

"I- yes. Thank you," Sherlock stammered, shaking his head as he composed himself. "If we are all to survive this night, I need cooperation. Another man is dead, and unless you want to see that number rise, I suggest you listen carefully. Dr. Watson and I are going to investigate the inner halls of the mansion in search of an escape. I highly suggest you all remain in the ballroom."

A scowling young woman spoke up to their right. "Why the hell should we listen to you?"

Sherlock feigned offense. "Oh? I'm sorry, is there anyone here _more_ qualified to lead a murder investigation? No? Kindly stop talking." Without another word on the matter, Sherlock looked back to the crowd. "There is, of course, no way we can physically keep you here, so if you wish to wander around, at the very least stay out of our way. And do have the courtesy of wandering in pairs. It'll just make the disappearances easier to count if there are witnesses." Already ignoring John's groan, Sherlock turned and hopped down the last three steps. However, he was blocked off. Lord St. Simon pushed himself into Sherlock's path with a disdainful leer.

"What makes you think," said Lord St. Simon, "you're above all this? How are you so sure that _you_ won't be next?"

Sherlock, on the exterior, remained stoic. His face did not betray a single trace of fear or anger. That was how John knew the comment had gotten to him. His lack of response was more telling than anything. John stepped up, placing his hand on the small of Sherlock's back. With one nudge, he guided him away, his own eyes trained on Lord. St. Simon until the arrogant bastard's image had bled into the crowd. Once they'd broken out of the throng, stepping into open space, Sherlock picked up his pace, allowing John to drop his hand and follow him off to stand under one of the many velvet curtains.

"So," John cleared his throat, "where do we begin?"

Sherlock fiddled with the cuffs of his suit as he thought, eyes flitting about the ballroom. "Well," he hesitated, "useless to look into the victims. They both came alone. No one here knew them personally or there would have been a bigger scene when they dropped. All the evidence is gone, nothing left of them, so, dead end. That leaves..." Sherlock trailed off, brows furrowing in concentration. "I need to familiarize myself with the manor. Know my battleground," he said as his gaze drifted up toward the apex of the grand staircase, the locked door. "More importantly, I need to know what that room Bell disappeared into is."

John frowned, following his line of sight. "Why do you-"

"We'll start with the kitchen," Sherlock headed off in that direction. "Process of elimination, we'll look into every room and wing we can. Get to know old Ignatius. Whatever we can't find must be in that room."

John followed after him. "Is that all?"

"What else is there?"

"An escape, Sherlock," said John. "We've got to get all these people out of here."

"Ah, yes, that too," Sherlock brushed him off and picked up his pace.

By the time John had caught up to him again, Sherlock was already at the door to the kitchen. The deep blue of the slitted light inside was a stark contrast with the warm tones outside. Their silhouettes fell on the floor in a halo of gold against indigo. Slowly, Sherlock closed the door, and cut off the noise from outside.

"Don't touch anything," Sherlock whispered. With a lithe step, he made his way toward the boarded up windows. "No signs of insect damage, but the wood is brittle and the nails are rusted. Square heads, made of iron. It's been boarded for at least a hundred years," he spoke aloud as he brushed his fingers between the planks. Predictably, coated with dust. Sherlock took a strong grip on either end of the middle board, braced his foot on the wall, and pulled back. The wood crumbled under the minute force, exploding into a cloud of dust and splinters. Sherlock coughed roughly, covering his mouth with his sleeve. Holding his breath this time, he pulled off four more planks. The room grew steadily more silver.

Finally turning away from the window, Sherlock looked about the kitchen again. "Alright. Anything out of the ordinary, anywhere the dust has been disturbed, I need it know. Look everywhere."

John glared back at him. "You told me not to touch anything."

Sherlock turned his back to John, already fixated on a door against the far wall. He tried the handle. Locked. "Don't touch anything important."

"How the hell am I supposed to kno-"

"Stop being difficult for the sake of it and _help me_ ," Sherlock hissed as he moved on to the next door.

John cracked his jaw, debating for a moment whether or not he'd be within his right to be even more difficult now. In the end, though he decided yes, he gave in. With Sherlock working on the opposite side of the room, John knelt down at the boilers and cautiously opened up the little cast iron doors beneath the brickwork and the pots. To be quite honest, he half expected a rabid badger or a colony of spiders to lurch out at him, but it was thankfully still inside. John couldn't see much, had to angle his head so he could peer inside without blocking the light. "Well," he began, "there are charred logs still sat on the grating, and there are ash and coals underneath, but they're all dead cold. Haven't been used in quite a while,"

"Good," Sherlock encouraged somewhere behind him, "keep going." There was another rattling of a door knob.

John grunted as he pushed himself up. "Uhm," he cast his eyes about, "there's a firewood box in the corner- again, undisturbed, but it's full. So... whoever had been using this last must have had the intention to keep using it. Otherwise they would have just let the supply run out."

"Very good," said Sherlock, further away now. "But..."

"But the party food hasn't come from here, and besides that, it doesn't look like anyone's cooked in here for decades. So, they didn't just stop using it because it was outdated. They left suddenly, which... doesn't make any sense, because Bell is living here with a staff. It's like life just cut off," John mused out loud. "Still, I don't see how this he-" his voice cut off in a choking sound as he turned to find that Sherlock was gone.

It was like the jolt when first starting to drift off to sleep, that light headed state as the body starts to shut down, only to feel an omnipresent force pushing you forward, pulling the ground out from under your feet. The heart arrests, sound is drowned out in roaring blood, and the veins freeze over. Fear did not cover it. John, standing alone in the kitchen, believed in that moment that Sherlock had been taken. Just like Drebber and Strangerson, just like the note had promised, Sherlock was gone. John had let him out of his sight for two seconds too long, he'd failed and- "Sherlock," John breathed, his voice cracking with terror. "Sherlo- oh God, Sherlock!" he shouted.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

The third door had been the charm. Without thinking anything of it, as Sherlock jiggled the handle and felt it give away, he pushed through and found himself stepping into a desolate hallway. The door quietly swung closed behind him, just shy of clicking shut. Curiosity got the better of him, and John's voice faded into the background as he made his way down the hall. It wasn't nearly as ornate as the halls leading off the ballroom. No carpet, no trim, tallow candles melted into the window sills- a servants' passage. Sherlock ran his hand along the wall, feeling the chipped paint give away disintegrate under his fingertips.

He didn't find anything spectacular at first. An icebox, an empty pantry, boiler room with tarnished copper pipes that likely led to the baths. Down the hall, Sherlock could vaguely hear the echoes of John's voice, a panicked call of his name. Ah. Right. Probably shouldn't have wandered off. Sherlock cringed, stepping just a little faster to get to the end of the hall, where there was a sharp turn and- a draft. Guilty as he did feel about breaking his promise to John, curious impulses led him to favour investigating. No surprise there. Sherlock peered around the corner to find an open space, like a grand barn attached to the main house. He stood on a raised platform with a few spice boxes and a cast iron stove. The platform dropped down onto a dirt floor, stretching to stacks of hay and empty stalls. A summer kitchen and stables. On the adjacent sides, there were no walls, just open arches that led outside, one end to a gravel road, the other to a thicket of trees. Sherlock breathed in the crisp night air and exhaled, his breath fogging at his lips.

Turning on his heel, Sherlock hurried back down the hall and into the kitchen where he found John with his hands in his hair, breathing heavy. The moment Sherlock stepped through the door, however, he stopped all together. His hands dropped down to his sides. Several emotions passed across his face: fear, disbelief, relief, and then rage. That one, he seemed to settle comfortably on. Storming across the room, John grabbed Sherlock by the collar of his suit and shoved him back against the door he just came through. "What the _fuck_ did I tell you?! I had one rule, Sherlock, just one! Do. Not. Leave. My. Sight! Your life is under threat, what part of that do you not understand? You scared me half to death!" he roared.

"John! For God's sake, let go!" Sherlock pried himself free. John stumbled back, left hand trembling. Sherlock readjusted his collar. "I stepped out of the room for thirty seconds to follow a hallway. Wasn't exactly snatched out of thin air."

"And how was I supposed to know that?" John seethed.

Sherlock couldn't really respond to that. The impossibility of this all hadn't quite sunken in, he was realizing now. His head told him that people did not simply disappear. Reality was telling him otherwise.

When Sherlock didn't respond, John continued. "Just... Christ, tell me where you're going. That's all I ask," he sighed, finally betraying how breathless he was. Sherlock, again, did not respond. He did not apologise either, which of course pissed John off, but there was a note of regret in his eyes. At the very least, it was there. They had a brief stand off before John finally looked past Sherlock to the door. "Was it worth it, at least?"

"That remains to be seen," Sherlock replied. "It's not enough right now," he murmured. The hallways was a literal dead end for the time being. Sherlock reealuated the room. Nothing had changed since he'd been in there not even two hours ago. Dust was still thick on every surface, with no signs of life- he drew in a harsh breath. "John, don't move," he urged.

"What?" John tensed.

Sherlock walked slowly, retracing in his own footprints. "You came in here before Drebber was killed, right? You stepped into the room, not just in the doorway."

"Yes," he replied.

"And so did I. I walked around the perimeter of the entire room. Jane was coming in and out all night."

John paused. "I'm not following."

"Look at the floor, John," Sherlock instructed. "Like everything else, filthy, but not a single foot print aside from the ones we just made."

"That's not poss-"

"I know it isn't," Sherlock cut him off. "But it's there." He stopped halfway between John and the window, turning about in a circle. The slight disturbance on the floor alone was enough to kick up a small cloud at his feet.

John watched Sherlock's movements become increasingly more frantic. "You alright?"

"I am fine," Sherlock answered. Too quick.

John knew he was lying, but didn't call him out on it. From what he'd seen under the stairs earlier alone, Sherlock was fixated on the dust. That one logic defying detail that canceled out any plausible explanation. It was disturbing him. John swiped his finger along the table at his side, watching the dark line left behind. "I will show you fear in a handful of dust," he murmured.

Sherlock stopped cold. "What?"

"It's from a poem," John explained. "T.S. Eliot's 'The Wasteland'. I read it years ago, ridiculously difficult to get through, but- that was a line from it. Stuck with me, I don't quite know why."

"It's the writer in you, John," Sherlock smiled dimly. However, the expression faded fast into a look of astonishment. "Writer..."

"Sorry, what?"

Sherlock rushed forward, holding John by the shoulders. "You are brilliant."

"I- yes, I'm inclined to agree, but-" John stammered, "why exactly?"

"He's a _writer,_ John," said Sherlock. "Ignatius Bell is an author. A man who's dedicated his life to language, to books and stories. What is going to give us the most information on him?"

John slowly smiled as he caught up. "His library."

Sherlock beamed back at John, the two of them breathless and grinning like children. Parting, but not after a moment too long of staring, they gladly left the kitchen behind. As soon as they pushed through the door, the gold light of the ballroom burst down on them. The guests were generally where they'd left them, huddled in the middle of the dance floor (like a crowd had done Drebber or Strangerson any good). Sherlock lead the way, long legs striding past the group and toward the stairs, only to be stopped halfway there by a hand on the back of his suit.

"Have you found a way out?" Francis Moulton asked.

Sherlock did not hesitate. "No, and your slowing me down isn't going to help," he lied.

John placed his hand on Francis' shoulder, partly just to get the man's grip off of Sherlock. "We're doing everything we can to end this."

Leaving the consoling to John, Sherlock's eyes swept the room, stopping just at a table off to the side where Jane was clearing off empty trays. "Jane," he called as he marched over to her. She nearly dropped the trays as he approached, trying quickly to recover. "Your matches, I need them."

Jane shook her head. "I never said... I-I don't have any matches."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. The girl was frightened, under tremendous pressure and obviously forbidden to help, but he had no time for comforting at the moment. Even so, he continued with less bite to his tone. "Yes you do. The house is laid for gas, you would have to use candles in the dark when there was no point in turning it on. Besides that, I can see the outline in the pocket under your apron."

Jane said nothing. Her paranoid gaze shifted around her before she slipped her hand under her apron and pulled out a small tin of matches. She handed them over, willing her hand to stop trembling.

Sherlock took them with a nod just as John had left Francis to rejoin him. The detective pulled a short length of tallow from his pocket, not ignorant of the way Jane's eyes widened at the sight of it, and lit the wick. He let the wax drip off one side to avoid burning his fingers. "Perfect," he said. Sherlock turned to John with the flame's light in his eyes. "Off into the bowels of the beast."

The staircase stretched on above them, seeming a hundred times taller and insurmountable than before. Beast was a disturbingly accurate comparison. The white marble steps and spindles glistened like teeth, and the darkness cloaking the upper floors looked ready to swallow them whole. John and Sherlock climbed the stairs together, but it was John that paused halfway up. He turned back, looking down over the crowd to find Jane still standing off at the tables. From there, he could see her fidgeting nervously with the high neck of her black dress. She pulled the collar down, rubbing her palm over her jugular. John could just barely catch the gruesome ring of bruised skin that circled her neck. He would have gone back down, but Sherlock was already halfway up the staircase without him. Albeit reluctantly, he put the image to the back of his mind and continued on.

Sherlock stopped at the top of the stairs. On either side of the locked oak doors, two halls stretched in one direction to the catwalk surrounding the ballroom, and in the other toward the inner halls of the manor. Sherlock clicked his tongue, and chose the left wing. Holding the candle out to throw the feeble glow ahead, John and Sherlock made their way cautiously into the darker depth of the hall. The curtains were shut in this part of the mansion as well, thick black fabric blocking out all light but a few slits of moonlight.

Sherlock felt his way along the wall. "None of the boards have been turned up for electric wiring," he mused. "By the time the manor was built, I'd find it safe to assume the gas was laid with the original foundation." He paused as the hall made a slight turn to the right, the glow of the ballroom once again disappearing - once again reminding them how alone they really were in this. Sherlock's hand felt along the wall, the candle throwing off just enough light for him to make out shapes. "An estate as ostentatious as this wouldn't have the switches - the chains - out in the open. Too unsightly. So most likely, they'd be..." the quiet rip of a chain behind a brass sconce gave way to a dim burst of light on either side of them. One by one the lamps on either side of the hall lit up, creating a path for them through the darkness. Sherlock smiled to himself and blew out the candle. "Hidden."

John took the candle from him and set it on a nearby ornate table. "You know you could have just turned the light on if you knew where it was. Show off."

Sherlock only shrugged. "Not nearly as fun," he replied. John tried, and failed, to hold back a chuckle. Sherlock glowed. "Besides, architecture is important, John. It can tell you everything," he said as they began their intrepid journey into the manor. "This house is a Queen Anne Revival style. I noticed as my cab was pulling up the drive. It boasts fine brickwork in a softer finish than most general Victorian structures. The stone casing on the front door is a dead give away, but it's the oriel windows that really define it." John scoffed at his side, prompting Sherlock to explain. "Knowing the difference between architectural styles can give you the layout of the entire building so long as you know how to differentiate between cases. Now, Queen Anne Revival was popular from the 1870's to the 1890's. Jane said that the manor was built in 1895, most likely the year it was finished. Popular styles had moved on by that point, so construction likely began in the late 1880's. Even a house this size wouldn't take over five years to finish, money troubles then. Something that set the original owners back, prevented them from being able to afford to finish."

John listened intently as they walked along, moving through iridescent spheres of gold and then darkness. "What has any of this got to do with the layout of the manor?" he asked.

Light passed over Sherlock's face. "Well, a family that had just gone through money troubles only to just finish their home isn't exactly going to squander expenses on something like a library, are they?" he fired back. "No, they'd have a number of them out in the sitting room, where most of their guests would see them, just to keep up appearances. Bell, though, he's an author. When he bought the estate, he would have had a library put in."

"How do you know this isn't his own family's estate? He could have inherited it," John point out.

Sherlock clicked his tongue. "No, I saw the original family's crest in the stonework at the gates when we were arriving. Dougall, Doyle, Dunkirk, something like that, it was too weathered for me to make out. He bought it." The hallways split off in to directions before them. Sherlock turned left. "Bell would have kept the Master Bedroom for himself, but aside from the servants, it doesn't seem that anyone else lives here. So, he'd have taken the second largest bedroom and had it converted. The Master would have been on the side of the manor with the best view, which would be the eastern wing overlooking the valley and the lake, also closer to the staircase. That leaves the second largest, in the west wing, overlooking the woods." Just as Sherlock finished, they stopped in front of a plain paneled door. Looking down at John, he twisted the handle, blessedly unlocked, and pushed the door open to reveal a room of floor to ceiling bookshelves.

John paused a moment, a smile twitching at his lips. "Ta, well done."

"Yes, I thought so."

The two of them made their way inside cautiously. The curtains had been pulled in this room as well, with no signs of sconces on the walls. Sherlock felt his way over to a small table, where the limited light glinted off the glass of an oil lamp. Striking a match, he lit the wick and passed it off to John. John took the lamp, brows knitting in confusion. For a moment, both their hands were cradling their one source of light. "Well, go on," Sherlock said.

John blinked himself out of a daze. "Go on with what?" he asked. Their voices were in a whisper, their proximity ghosting breath over each other's skin.

"You're the literature expert here. Tell me what you think," Sherlock replied.

"What makes you think I'm an expert? Just because I remembered a line from a poem?"

Sherlock's fond response was enough to prompt John to take the lamp. "No, because you took a minor in English Literature during your undergraduate studies. You're a writer, and you're a romantic. My own knowledge of this field is limited. Romance away."

John... wasn't entirely sure how to respond to that. He let out a long breath, his lungs shuddering as he recovered and took the lamp with nothing more than a nod. He turned to the shelves. "Well," he swallowed hard as he peered at the titles lining the walls. "It's not a very organized library to start. He's got no obvious order to where he puts things- there's an Urdu to English dictionary, a tourist guide of Greenland, and a history of the loom on one row. He's also got a bible- King James, so he was a Catholic," John continued along the wall, eyes scanning the books and their surroundings in an attempt to take in detail; to try to think like Sherlock. Growing frustrated, his confidence ran dry, and he turned back to Sherlock. "Is any of this _actually_ useful?"

Sherlock had wondered off to the other side of the room at this point, peering through a set of empty decanters in the corner. "All information is useful until proven otherwise," he reminded him.

John wasn't too sure of that, but he continued. "Right, then." He moved on to the next shelf. "Looks like he's got a lot of medical journals, could be research for whatever it is he rights. They're scattered between rows of poetry. This one here's on," John slipped it off the shelf to peer at the title, "Tabes dorsalis. Degeneration of the nerves in the spinal cord."

"And the poetry?" asked Sherlock.

John hummed under his breath as he glanced over the collection. "Mostly Victorian, a few of the Modernists, but nothing past 1930. I can see Eliot, Pound, Woolfe, Arnolds, and- looks like he's a fan of Rudyard Kipling, he's got a few of his collections and some of his fiction. _The Jungle Book_ and _The Man Who Would Be King_ , recognize them?"

"Not particularly."

John shrugged, not entirely sure if Sherlock was watching. "Lots of Elephants."

Sherlock chuckled from across the room.

Moving to the next shelf, John bent down to a row not far off the ground. " _The Cloister and The Hearth_. Questioning Catholic, then. I'm really not seeing much else in the way of romancing..." he trailed off, eyes fixed on a shelf on the adjacent wall. John pushed himself back up with a grunt, setting the lamp down on the small table Sherlock had found it on. His hand stretched up to brush along the spines. "He has... a lot of Oscar Wilde. His entire works, it seems."

"He's the one with the cursed portrait, yes?"

John turned back to search Sherlock out in the darkness. "Yeah, _The Picture of Dorian Grey_. You've read it?" Sherlock grunted in conformation somewhere to his right. "Thought you weren't interested in literature."

"There are exceptions to every rule," Sherlock replied.

John laughed dryly. "Right." Rubbing his hands together, John scanned what he could see of the cramped little room and sighed. "I've got nothing else, really. He seems to enjoy travel and reading about exotic places, old fashioned, religious..." John rubbed the back of his neck. "It'd be helpful if his study were in here."

The light scuffling and movement that had filled the background stopped abruptly. Suddenly Sherlock's face was appearing out of the darkness, stepping into the little halo of the lamp. "What?"

John frowned. "His study. He hasn't got a desk set up in here."

Sherlock's eyes widened. "You always sit on the side of our desk closest to the bookshelf," he breathed.

"Well... yes. He does this for a living, so he's got to have some space dedicated to writing, right? I just assumed he'd keep copies of his own books there. I don't see any here- Sherlock!" John had barely gotten the last word out before Sherlock was sprinting out of the library. He grabbed the lamp and ran out after him, cursing under his breath. The detective was already halfway down the hall, pulling on locked doors and peering into the ones that did open without satisfaction. "What the hell are you-"

"His study, John!" Sherlock interrupted. "The one thing out of place, he has no study in the library. Why would he keep them separate?"

"Maybe there wasn't enough room?"

"No, he customized that library, he could have knocked down walls and made it as large as he pleased!" Sherlock passed his hand back through his hair as he tried to force open another door. "The _only reason_ he could have wanted to keep them separate is that he's hiding something. That has to be the room at the top of the stairs, that space would usually be reserved for a wall of family portraits, but he made it a _study_. It's his mind, the centre of the manor. That's why he's locked himself up in there."

John growled under his breath in frustration. "Alright, alright, but I don't understand why that's-"

The lamp went out. Sherlock and John stopped cold, staring at each other from either end of the hall. One by one, in a domino effect the sconces shut off. When the last light faded, their eyes met, and they found themselves suffocated in complete darkness.


	4. Chapter 4

'Twas my one Glory-

Let it be

Remembered

I was owned of Thee-

\- Poem #177, Emily Dickenson.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

For a long moment, nothing happened. The lights went out, Sherlock disappeared on the far end of the corridor, and John held his breath. It was silent, to the point that John could hear Sherlock breathing, forcibly slow. The unlit lamp cradled in one hand, John inched toward the handgun in his suit coat pocket with the other. His eyes gradually began to adjust to the complete darkness, catching the slips of moonlight between the curtains and how the _very_ limited light reflected around the hall. Still, he only barely caught sight of the shadow bursting out from the distant void and toward Sherlock. The detective cried out, assaulted by whatever force it was. John couldn't make it out, couldn't decipher a silhouette from the darkness. That didn't quite matter at the moment, though. Sherlock was in danger.

"Sherlock!" John shouted as he dropped the lamp and sprinted toward him.

The smash of glass did not echo. Despite the great arches of windows and the long stretch of hall with high ceilings, the lamp did not echo as it crashed onto the rug. It was a dull crack and a thud onto plush fabric. The glass crunched under John's heel as he sprinted down the hall, entirely blind save for slivers of hazy moonlight seeping through the curtains. It was all shapes and shadows. At the other end of the corridor, one of those shadows was slamming straight into Sherlock, the force throwing him to the floor with a strangled shout. As John ran toward Sherlock, the shadow seemed to disappear.

John felt around for Sherlock in the darkness, finding a hand likewise searching him out. Their hands fumbled for one another, struggling to get purchase around an arm or a wrist, until finally they managed to latch onto each other. The moment John had Sherlock in his grasp, he hauled him up to his feet, but not more than a second passed before the same force was barreling into him. John grunted as he was thrown back, stumbling into the wall behind him, the framed mirror rattling from its anchors. Something came toward him. He barely managed to duck out of the way before the mirror shattered and rained onto the floor.

There was no sound with the shadow moved. John crashed shoulder first into a decorative table, feeling the wood splinter under his weight. He recovered, or tried to, listening for any sign of their assailant, but there was _nothing._ Only dead silence and the lingering droplets of broken glass shards, like sand spilling from the frame. John took out his hand gun and held it firmly in both hands, his aim steady. "Sherlock?" he hissed, feeling like his own voice was being eaten up by the void. " _Sherlock?"_ No reply. John's eyes swept what few outlines he could make out. He couldn't shoot until he knew for sure where Sherlock was, couldn't risk hitting him, couldn't let fear overcome his senses.

Sherlock yelled from somewhere to John's left and it felt like someone had stabbed a needle full of mercury into his heart. It was the darkest end of the hall, but even so, he could see the silhouette of Sherlock fighting against another vague figure. The assailant threw Sherlock, hard, against the wall, the smack of his head against the brick window pane making John's stomach churn. John rushed the shadowy figure. His body passed through nothing. Skidding to a stop, John turned and redirected his attention quite naturally from the enemy, to Sherlock. He was down. He wasn't moving. John dropped to his knees, gropping about until the moonlight illuminated him enough to find his companion. Sherlock groaned at the touch, but lifted himself up enough lean heavily against John, who held him with a protective arm at his side.

Finally cleared of a range, John aimed his handgun once again. All he could hear was the sound of their breathing, heavier now, and the distant ticking of a clock down the hall. A shadow passed down the passage, blocking out slivers of light from outside. John exhaled and fired three shots. The deafening blasts destroyed the quiet and left their ears ringing. He didn't hit anything. For a painfully long moment, neither of them moved. John held Sherlock just a little tighter. Another shadow moved to their right, just obscuring the light for a fraction of a second. John fired again. Nothing. The bullet hit the wall in a cloud of dust and drywall. The doctor's arm traveled with his gaze, sweeping around them for the slightest sign of their attacker.

Whoever it was had been fast. Evasive. John was only now letting the affair catch up to him. They'd been impossible to track or see. He wasn't entirely convinced there hadn't been more than one. And he didn't think too hard about how it had appeared, when he could see, as a shapeless mass. Didn't think about it at all.

Sherlock's hand came to rest on his forearm. Snapped from a focused daze, John let his hand come down, reaching around Sherlock to click the safety on before he pocketed it again. He could feel the heat of it smoldering through the fabric at his side. They were safe for the moment, and Sherlock was infinitely more important than settling a score.

"Can you walk?" John whispered.

Sherlock groaned again in reply. On unsteady limbs, he pushed himself up, staggering to his feet only to sway and fall against John again. No nonsense after that. John caught Sherlock as he stumbled and pulled the detective's arm over his shoulders. Taking on the brunt of his weight, John dragged Sherlock into the nearest open door. It was the only room he'd seen so far without the curtains drawn. Clear, unfiltered twilight fell upon an ornate double bed. Shadows rose and fell about the room, but it was still too dark to make anything out. John deposited Sherlock on the bed, pushing him insistently back against the headboard and pillows while he rifled through his suit jacket's lining. Finding the matches they'd taken from the maid, John lit the oil lamp set on a nearby dresser. Orange flooded the cramped little room. There was barely enough room for the bed, let alone any other furniture, and what had been left inside made it seem even smaller. There was a small leather trunk at the foot of the bed, and John pushed to to the door. It wouldn't stop anyone from getting in, but it would buy time.

Now that he could see properly, John turned back to the bed to assess Sherlock. He moved the lamp to the bedside table, pushing aside a stack of books to make room, so he could see better. Sitting on the edge of the mattress, John braced his hand gingerly on the side of Sherlock's face to coax him to look at him. "Sherlock," he called his attention with a firm tone. Authoritative, the same he used with his patients. Sherlock looked up at him, though John could see that his eyes were clouded over. "Sherlock, what is my name?"

Sherlock blinked a few times, and even this fast, John could see that he was clearing up a bit. "I'm fine," he slurred.

"No, answer the question," John pressed. "What is my name?"

Sherlock looked for a moment like he might try to argue his way out of this, but one stern glare from John had him sighing in resignation. "John Watson, your middle name is Hamish, God help you."

"Oy," John laugh in relief, the sound shuddering in his chest with the force of it. "Do you know what happened to you?"

"Hit my head against the window pane," Sherlock replied.

"Good. And do you know where we are?"

"Hell House in Scotland."

John let out a long breath, his hand slipping down to the nape of Sherlock's neck to bring him in and press their foreheads together for a moment. Just to breathe and believe they were both okay. Sherlock didn't seem to mind. At least now John knew he hadn't been hit on the forehead. Sherlock's speech had gradually solidified, the delirious quality fading away as he recovered from his hit. Still, John knew he wasn't quite in the clear yet, not after a blow like that. So, he let go and sat back again, turning the lamp a little so he could check the dilation of Sherlock's pupils. Responsive to the change in light. Good. John lifted his hand in front of Sherlock's face. "Follow my finger," he ordered as he moved his hand from side to side, up and down. Sherlock tracked them alright, but there were a few times his gaze seemed to trail off before he caught it again. Not as good. "Well, you've definitely got a concussion," he sighed.

Sherlock didn't seem nearly as phased. "Not the first time."

"That doesn't exactly help your case," John clipped. "This is what you get for running off without me. Tell me where it hurts," he said as he began to ghost his fingers through his hair and over his scalp, searching for any swelling.

Sherlock only scoffed. "Hardly my fault we were atta- ah, _shit,_ there."

"Sorry," John murmured. He'd stopped only two inches above Sherlock's right ear, his fingers coming back dripping in red. "You're bleeding."

"Am I?" said Sherlock. "Lovely."

"Shut up." John sat back and looked about the room for anything he could use. There wasn't much of course, the sheets under the duvet were too thick to pull apart, but on a high bureau on the other side of the room, a thin cloth had been laid down. John wiped his fingers off on one corner before ripping it into squares. He returned to the bed and stood over Sherlock, tilting his head toward the light. "Stay still," he commanded, though his voice had lost its demanding edge. With the torn linen, John carefully dabbed at Sherlock's scalp, parting the dampened hair as he searched for the source of the blood. Sherlock hissed under his breath when at last he found it. "Piss off, it's not that bad."

"You piss off," Sherlock replied, and the two of them laughed quietly together.

John continued, a little more mindful of his pressure. "It really isn't that bad. The cut isn't even as long as my fingernail. Head wounds just bleed more. You'll live."

Sherlock shrugged. "Convenient."

John nudged his shoulder. "I fail to see what you find so amusing," he said as he worked on cleaning up as much of the blood as he could. No point in applying pressure, it would only make the swelling worse, and the cut would scab soon. "Your life is being threatened."

Sherlock's expression dimmed. "When is it not?" John was less than pleased with that answer, and so Sherlock continued. "There is nothing new under the sun. There has got to be some rational explanation for this, and once we figure it out, everything will be fine."

John's hands paused for a moment in Sherlock's hair. "This place really has you that disturbed."

Sherlock instantly frowned. "Why do you say that?" he snapped.

John, though, was unphased by his quick reply. "If you have to reassure yourself that there is a rational explanation, then you must doubt it in the first place. You did the same thing in Dartmoor."

Sherlock did not respond at first. His shoulders dropped, eyes following suit, as John continued to clean him up. The feather touch was enough to calm his nerves, quiet his mind. "My life being under threat," he murmured, "is really nothing new. It's hardly enough to phase me when it comes to the common criminal."

John scoffed. "There is nothing about this that is common."

"Still," Sherlock shrugged. "I'm not all that worried."

"And why not?"

Sherlock smiled dimly as he looked up at John under a fringe of blood crusted hair. "I've got you here, haven't I, Doctor?"

They shared a moment, lips upturned and expressions faded in the limited light, a combination of moon and candle. John chuckled humourlessly under his breath. "What makes you think that's enough?"

"You've never given me reason to doubt it in the past," Sherlock replied.

"Don't go spoiling it," said John. He worked carefully on cleaning the crusted blood out of Sherlock's hair, mostly just combing his fingers through his curls to break up clumps. The dried blood would crumble into a rusty powder, and John would brush it off of Sherlock's shoulders. All the while he was using his other hand to dab gently at the wound, having already dirtied a few of his makeshift cloths. Once he was satisfied with his job there, John took a seat on the edge of the mattress. Some of the blood had dripped down over Sherlock's temple and onto his face. With reverent touch, he wiped it away. "If this is the one thing I can do then... that's enough for me. You do the brain work, I'll keep your sorry arse alive. Capable of that much."

Sherlock's hand came up to curl around John's wrist, lowering his arm down so he could look him in the eye. "You are _so much_ more than that." He didn't let go.

John didn't pull away, either. He licked his lips, the two of them locked and unable to look away. Although his breathing was steady, his heart was a vibration, a string pulled taught within him. "Well then... we're rather hapless, aren't we."

Sherlock's eyes softened. Their voices were hardly above a whisper. "I wouldn't say we're helpless."

"No," John breathed. "Hapless. There's... a difference."

They were going to make a spectacular mess of this. They were leaning in toward one another, caught on the same gravitational pull. Their foreheads pushed together delicately, and Sherlock pressed his nose against John's cheek. John turned his wrist in Sherlock's hand, their palms brushing, fingers twitching but too hesitant to lace. John let out a harsh breath, punched out of his chest by the proximity of Sherlock's mouth alone.

The lights came on in the hallway. They could just barely see it around the edges of the door, but it was enough to catch their attention instantly, the both of them siting upright and at attention. John slid off the bed, patting Sherlock's knee to silently command that he stay there. Moving slowly toward the door, John shifted the trunk out of the way just enough that he could open the door, one hand on his gun in his pocket. The creaking of the hinges had them both on edge. John stepped out into the hallway, scanning both ends, finding nothing alarming but broken glass and an upended table. He relaxed considerably, looking back into the room and motioning to Sherlock that all was clear.

Until of course, he heard footsteps. Just as soon as Sherlock got to the door, John was stepping in front of him. They saw the shadow first, a long and distorted silhouette, but as it reared around the corner, it straightened out, and the butler followed soon after. John didn't show any relief.

Mr. Gates stopped at the end of the hallway and surveyed the damage. "My, my," he clicked his tongue, "had a bit too much to drink, gentlemen? Happens to the best of us, not to worry."

"We were attacked," John bit out, "if you cared to know."

"Attacked?" Mr. Gates smiled pleasantly. "Don't be absurd, this is a gala of highly respectable guests. Besides, they are all downstairs, in the ballroom. Chittering away about something trivial, the last time I checked. Fear, probably. No one seems to be interested in the hors'derves anymore. Pity." He clasped his hands behind his back, advancing toward them with an easy pace. His attention fell upon Sherlock. A sickening sort of thrill lit up his expression. "Ah. Mr. Sherlock Holmes... an honour to finally meet you, truly."

"I wish I could say the same," Sherlock replied.

"Do you?"

"No," Sherlock snapped.

Mr. Gates "Charming. I am Gates, Master Ignatius' butler," he said as he extended his hand.

Sherlock recoiled. "This isn't the time for pleasantries."

Mr. Gates did not seem to agree. "I don't see why it matters any great deal."

"It _matters_ because people are in danger," John spat. "Your 'Master' is behind all of this and you are just as likely to be held responsible by association at the very least, do you not understand that?"

"Yes, and?" Gates answered sharply, that wretched smile never faultering. "None of that matters. I am only an..." he turned to Sherlock, "an observer."

"Enough," Sherlock snarled. "Tell us what you know about Bell."

Mr. Gates shook his head. "I can say as little or as much as I like, but I would much rather continue to watch, stay silent," he tilted his head. "You would know all about that, wouldn't you Mr. Holmes?"

Darkness, within the space of a blink. John and Sherlock instantly reached out, grabbing with frantic hands until they could latch onto one another, be sure that the other was, in fact, there. It lasted only half a second this time, but when the gas lights fired up again, a burst of heat rushed the hall, and Gates was gone. They both stiffened, barely having enough time to exchange a glance before a roar of screaming echoed from the ballroom. Footsteps thundered and spilled in every direction, rushing toward them. Sherlock was the first to run down the hall to see what the hell was going on, John quick on his heels. The moment they turned the corner, they were nearly trampled by guests running in a frenzy- not toward anything, but away from the ballroom. Sherlock stepped into the fray, grabbing onto the arm of the first man he could catch. "What happened?" he barked when the man tried in vain to free himself.

"Four more, dead," the man gasped.

"Who? Did you see?" Sherlock pushed.

"I-I don't know who they were! Two men in military dress, one plain looking bloke, and a South Asian man, all at once!"

"But what was different," Sherlock hissed. "What's different this time?"

"The- the writing! On the wall!"

Sherlock let him go when it looked like he might start throwing punches to get away. "We need to see that writing, come on," said Sherlock as he ran back toward the ballroom.

John struggled to keep up. "Sherlock, wait!" he pleaded.

It was utter chaos, tensions higher than they'd been all night. The two of them were heading down the hall that turned toward the grand stair case, barely able to push through the flood of people trying to get by. Flashes of brightly coloured dresses, dark suits, diamonds and shocked pale faced sped by them. John struggled to push through, grabbing onto Sherlock by the forearm and pulling him into the first open door. A linen closet.

For five fucking seconds, John was going to have this. Finish what they started for once. Peril was imminent, John honestly feared for their lives, and - they needed this, God knew how much they needed it. Couldn't breathe from it. So John pulled Sherlock into the cupboard and pushed him up against the wall, one hand fisted in his collar and the other on the back of his neck. It was stupid, to kiss him with the shadows of a hundred people rushing past them, golden light pooling in between one after the other as they fled. Judging from the noise of barely suppressed hunger in the back of Sherlock's throat as he pulled John in and kissed him hard, he couldn't agree more. They didn't have time for grand gestures or confessions- nothing to confess really, nothing they didn't already know- but they had time for this.

The door was open, and John pulled away for a moment and looked toward it like he wanted to move away to close it, but Sherlock wasn't having that. He wasn't wasting a moment while they had it, and no one was looking anyway. Sherlock pulled John further back into the darkness and kissed him again, his hands on his jaw now, holding him there. Their teeth clacked together, noses bumping as they stumbled over one another, still learning how to do this. When at last they parted, their foreheads pressed together once again as they fought to catch their breaths, there were no words. None needed. In a heart beat, the two of them were running back out into the fray.

Most of the guests had run away from the ballroom at that juncture, and so there was less traffic to push past. John and Sherlock rounded the corner, sprinting out to the top of the stairs. They were instantly hit with the scent of charred wood and smoke. On the opposite side of the ballroom, at their level with the cavernous drop down to the dancefloor between them, a massive clock hung on the wall. Above that, a message written in charred letters read;

" _You answer to me."_

Sherlock stood rigid. While John cursed beside him, running his hand back through his hair and pacing, Sherlock remained still. His eyes hardened.

"What does it mean? What does he want? " John asked in a tight voice. When Sherlock didn't reply, his frown deepened, and his hand came up to shake his shoulder. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock inhaled slowly. "This has gone on long enough," he murmured. "It's time we got everyone out of here. There's an exit behind the kitchen that leads out to the stables, if we start directing everyone there, it shouldn't take-"

"Hold on!" John snapped, using his hand on Sherlock's shoulder to push him back, force him to look at him. "You knew there was an exit?"

Sherlock didn't reply, his mouth falling open and closed when he realized his mistake.

John snarled. "How long have you known?"

"John," Sherlock groaned, "we _really_ don't have time-"

"No! Tell me, how long have you known?"

Sherlock grimaced. "Since the kitchen, but John, I-"

"Don't," John hissed. It was all falling apart. People were still running around them, up and down the stairs as they frantically searched for an exit. "Don't tell me it was for the case. Don't tell me you needed more data before you let anyone leave. Don't you dare try to justify this. Four more people have _died_ Sherlock, you could have spared them!"

"And I was trying to save countless more by finding the root of the problem!" Sherlock fired back. "I don't _have_ to justify myself, John, when are you going to learn that?!"

"For the love of God, Sherlock, people are dead!"

"I made a mistake, alright?!" Sherlock roared.

John let out a harsh breath through his nose, glaring up at Sherlock. "Yes. You did." Taking a step toward him, John pointed down the stairs. "You start leading everyone toward the exit, I'll round up the rest and send them o- no, do not argue with me, Sherlock," he snapped when he saw the argument start on Sherlock's tongue. "You are getting out of here. Am I clear?"

Sherlock shut his mouth. His gaze flickered between the message on the wall, and John's quiet fury. All he could do was nod.

"Good," John said, nudging Sherlock toward the steps. "Now go. Quickly."

Sherlock nodded, turning and heading down the stairs, though the mass of guests running past them. John began walking back toward the hall, the two of them parting ways. However, Sherlock had only made it to the landing before he stopped and turned around. "John!" he called.

Livid as he was with Sherlock, John stopped and looked down at him regardless.

Sherlock's expression had softened, eyes pleading as he stared up at John. "I am sorry," he confessed. John frowned, lowering one leg down a step. Sherlock continued before he could get any further. "I am not a good man, and I don't pretend to be, but... you make me want to try."

Despite everything, John found himself breathless for a moment. By the time he could even think of what Sherlock had meant, the detective had turned around and was running down the stairs again. "This way!" Sherlock shouted over the crowd. Within moments, he was out of sight.

It wasn't until someone rammed into John's shoulder trying to get by that he moved.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Sherlock payed no attention to exactly who was following him. It didn't matter. He lead the crowd into the kitchen, ignoring their coughs against the dust as he ran straight for the back door. "Down this hallway," he commanded, ushering people through the threshold. "Turn left at the end and the passage will take you to the stables. I don't care which way you go, just get as far away from here as you can. Go."

Without a word of thanks or acknowledgment, they all ran past him, flooding out into the Scottish wilderness. Soon enough, Sherlock didn't even need to hold open the door. He stepped back and they all followed after one another like a heard of sheep. Sherlock watched them for a moment before turning away, walking slowly to a brass water pup against the far wall. Pulling the lever, he coaxed a slow trickle of water to drip out. Sherlock cupped his hand beneath the stream and splashed the water over his face and into his hair to wash out the blood. He winced as his finger tips brushed the scab, his head still aching form the whole ordeal. Rubbing his palm over his face a few times, Sherlock straightened up and caught sight of his reflection in the window, between the boards he'd pulled off earlier. His expression was blank, but his mind was on fire.

The message on the wall was for him. And it was long time that he ended this.

With a mental apology to John, Sherlock turned away from the exit and headed out of the kitchen, deeper into the mansion.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

With the way everyone has scattered so quickly, gathering the crowds and sending them to the exit was no easy task. John ran back the way he and Sherlock had come, toward the library. Guests were struggling to break windows with no success, pulling on doors in much the same way Sherlock had. John wasn't entirely convinced they were really trying to find a way out so much as trying to escape the unholy message burnt into the wall. Regardless, John stopped everyone he found and told them about the exit, ordering them to catch anyone else they found and get them out as well. Laborious as it was, it wasn't too long before the mansion was eerily silent once again. Standing on at the end of the hall closest to the library, John did a visual sweep and found himself entirely alone. Or so he thought at first.

A scuffling noise in the library caught his attention. John approached the room slowly, expecting to find a frightened party guest hiding in a corner.

What he found instead was Jane Dawson, her fingers trailing attentively over a row of tomes until she stopped over the one she was looking for. Quiet as a mouse, the timid girl slipped it off the shelf, and turned around. Her own had clamped over her mouth to keep from screaming when she realized she was not alone. Jane scrambled back with the book clutched to her chest, back slamming into the wall of books.

"Ja- Jane!" John hushed. "It's alright, it's just me," he said, but that didn't seem to make her any more calm. "Listen to me, there is a way out." John walked toward her with a gradual pace, trying not to scare her off. "There's a way out," he repeated. "You don't have to stay here any more."

Jane's doe-like eyes were blown wide in terror as she shook her head and tried to press herself further back, to disappear into the bookshelf.

John held out his hands in a show of surrender. "Come with me," he pleaded.

Jane continued to shake her head manically. Her hand moved from her mouth to her throat. Once again, John could see the gruesome ring of discoloured skin around her neck, like one continuous bruise. "I-I can't," she gasped as if she were being strangled. "I-I can't, I can't ever leave this place."

"Jane, please," John stepped closer and reached out.

It was a step too close. With a choked shriek, Jane lashed out, throwing the book at John and using the distraction to run past him.

John shouted as the book rammed into his chest, the heavy volume momentarily winding him. By the time he'd recovered enough to stumble out the door, the young maid was long gone. Much as he loathed it, there was only so much that John could do if she didn't want to be helped. Standing in the middle of the corridor, John found himself entirely alone, not so much as another breath audible in the grand manor. John would be lying if she said his pace wasn't a little faster, and that he didn't feel a chill in his spine, as he made his way toward the exit. He did not pause in the ballroom as he descended the stairs, almost afraid to look up at the burnt writing on the wall, or the round clock looming overhead. It seemed too much like a single eye, watching his every movement, boring straight through him. Once on the dance floor, John rounded to the back and headed into the kitchen.

Empty. That much was a good sign, or John tried to tell himself. The door on the other side was still hanging slightly open, creaking back and forth with the draft. John walked through and found himself in a plain looking hallway. Tallow candles sat in the windows, one missing from where Sherlock had taken it earlier. John did likewise, snapping a length of it off from where the wax had melted onto the sill. Every complaint of the floorboards under his feet had him shivering, but he pressed on until he turned the corner and found himself in the stables, just as Sherlock had said. There was a summer kitchen off to the side of the open space, and John searched for only a moment before he found a battered little iron lantern. The glass was cracked, but it would do the job. John stuck the candle inside, lit it with the matches he'd taken off of Sherlock, and used the it to light his way out.

The gravel road led around the building a short ways and into a garden of sprawling hedges. Bushes of green carnations and violets dotted the garden in neat rows, with heavy slabs of stone making up paths and patterns in the ground. The lantern threw out a deep red light, and caught the glistening frost clinging to the leaves. There wasn't another living soul out there, though again, John supposed that was a good thing. Just meant that everyone had gotten away. Still, he'd expected that Sherlock would be somewhere in sight waiting for him. Perhaps he'd just used that massive intellect of his, for once, and actually obeyed his orders to get away. Without anywhere else to really go, John wandered back down the gravel path and into the thick of the forest.

The moonlight didn't do much to illuminate as the clouds passed in front of it. The woods were too deep anyway, and only thin beams managed to pierce through. John held the lantern out in front of him as he walked, trying to find any sign that people had been through here. Not so much as a foot print. The absence of sound apart from the occasional hoot of an owl, or a distant fluttering of wings had John on edge. His knuckles turned white with the grip he had on the lantern's handle. No sign of Sherlock, no sign of anyone. His stomach twisted in knots.

The further into the forest he walked, the narrower his path became, until John found himself battling through tree branches and gnarled roots. John stopped for a moment to catch his breath. Sweat dripped down from his temple despite the frigid temperature biting into his skin. He probably should have turned back, he'd obviously gone the wrong way, and he was about to do so when a flicker of white between the trees caught his eye. John pushed through the brush, forcing his way until he stumbled into a small clearing.

The white he'd see was the moonlight catching a white lace dress strung up on a tree branch. It hung freely, swaying in the light breeze. Haunting. The hair on the back of John's neck stood up, but he found that he could not look away. There was something so innately sad yet beautiful about the suspended dress, the way a breath of wind caught one of the arms, and it seemed to dance toward him before falling back again. John set the lantern down in front of a little copper plaque at the base of the tree that had gone turquoise with age.

" _A memorial dedicated to every woman throughout history, mistreated, abused, and imprisoned under the shameful diagnosis of "Hysteria". These women did not conform to societal notions of what a woman should be, and so were often locked away or institutionalized. For many, it was too much to bare. - Plaque dedicated by the Sapphic Society of Edinburgh, 2006."_

A spear of terror shot through John's heart as his gaze drifted up to a tree branch above the dress, where a weathered noose hung about where the woman's neck would be. The arm of the dress swayed out again, this time floating toward the beaten path, where the light of the mansion broke through the forest.

"Oh my God..." he breathed. John did not know how he knew, or why, but some deep, instinctual part of him believed it with all his being. Sherlock was still inside. And there was so much more to that place than they had feared.

John turned and sprinted back the way he came, leaving the lantern glowing beneath the tree, where next to the plaque, a small white headstone leaned against the bark, entangled with vines.

" _Here is the final resting place of Jane Margret Rose Dawson, who took her own life by the noose in 1868. Though her sins prohibit her rest in the Protestant cemetery of her clan, may she be forever at peace here, and forgiven in the eyes of Almighty God."_


End file.
